


A Dark and Sacred Vengeance

by thelightofmorning



Series: Tales of the Aurelii [4]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Child Abandonment, Child Death, Crimes & Criminals, Fantastic Racism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Imprisonment, Kidnapping, Multi, Politics, Prequel, Religious Conflict, War Crimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2019-05-09 07:14:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 23,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14711537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelightofmorning/pseuds/thelightofmorning
Summary: Valerica was just looking for somewhere safe to hide and consider her options when she stumbled into the Dawnstar Sanctuary. The Night Mother needed a Listener. On the surface, it was a match made in Oblivion.Now she's caught up in a warrior-assassin's need for vengeance that will alter the balance of power in Skyrim and bring about a doom nobody is prepared to face.





	1. The Listener

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, criminal acts, war crimes, religious persecution and mentions of rape/non-con, torture, imprisonment, corpse desecration, child abuse, child abandonment and kidnapping. Runs concurrently and past ‘A Red and Bloody Dawn’.

 

Dawnstar had never been much of a town but thousands of years later, it managed to be even less. Valerica wiped her mouth and lowered the temporarily enthralled sailor gently to the ground. Let his friends from the ship with the blue-striped sails think him drunk and carry him on board. She only took what she needed from mortals.

            Part of her wanted to trust Serana’s word and go to the College of Winterhold. She missed her daughter very much. But she didn’t trust Harkon’s ability to be deceived. Sooner or later he’d find their daughter and his wrath would be terrible indeed. Better to hide from Harkon and hunter alike. Valerica had years to wait if need be. Gods knew she had the time to spare.

            She walked away from the harbour and around the headland, sighing. Valerica missed her gardens and peace. She wanted somewhere safe and dark, somewhere she didn’t need to worry about life’s necessities. Pity the Reach had been conquered by Skyrim and this Empire that arose. She could have dominated the Reach-Kings easily enough and made a powerbase to match Harkon’s.

            _Reduced to skulking around like a thief in the night,_ she thought sourly. _Why wasn’t Harkon happy with what we had?_

And now Serana was lost to her. Yes, she’d used her daughter, but it was for her own good!

            She was halfway around the headland when she saw a deeper recess in the rock, one blocked by a door painted with a red skull and black hand. It reeked of Daedric power and throbbed to an unknown heartbeat. Intrigued, Valerica put her hand to the door.

            _“What is life’s greatest illusion?”_ The whisper was high and shrill, piercing Valerica’s soul as it demanded an answer.

            “Innocence,” she said bitterly. No one was innocent, not even a child.

            _“Welcome home.”_ And it opened.

            The interior was dusty and deserted, though some signs of life lingered near an inadequate firepit. A lead sarcophagus sat on a dais, surrounded by nightshade and deathbells, and its decoration was of macabre skeletons holding hands. Valerica frowned at it; she knew all the Daedric symbols and none of this was familiar. Of course, it had been thousands of years…

            Leather scraped against stone and in a panic, Valerica opened the sarcophagus and jumped inside with the preserved corpse of the Dunmer within. Gods knew she’d shared accommodations with stranger things.

            “Am I smelling things or is that perfume?” a low masculine voice asked.

            “Cicero only smells the Mother,” whined another man. “It’s the nightshade and deathbell.”

            “I know perfume. I’m smelling… hmm… blue mountain flower with a hint of lavender,” the other voice remarked.

            “Maybe you’re just lonely, dear brother,” the whiner said in a wheedling tone. “Cicero was so very lonely…”

            _“Poor Cicero. Dear, sweet Cicero. So loyal!”_ The female voice was deep and dark. Valerica stifled a gasp as the darkness within grew sepulchral. _“And Rustem, clever loyal Rustem.”_

“Well, you’re not anymore,” Rustem assured Cicero. “You’d think after my first marriage I’d know to avoid crazy Nord women!”

            _“His ex-wife is one of our best customers,”_ the dark voice continued. _“She pays us to kill and calls herself holy.”_

“Rustem was swayed by a sweet voice,” Cicero said smugly. “Cicero is above such things.”

            “So if I start using my sexy voice, you’re immune?” Rustem asked, dropping his already low and sensuous voice a full two octaves.

            “Rustem is a cruel, cruel man,” Cicero complained.

            “Cicero was being a smug arsehole.”

            “Mother would be very disappointed in you.”

            “She can get in line behind Astrid, Safiya, Delphine and Sigdrifa,” Rustem said very dryly.

            Valerica’s lips twitched. Men like Rustem existed in every age, it seemed.

            _“Don’t let his demeanour fool you. Rustem is as dedicated as Cicero. When they find you, Valerica of the Volkihar, tell Cicero this: ‘Darkness rises when silence dies’. It will save you from an eternity in Coldharbour.”_

            _Darkness rises when silence dies?_ A strange phrase. She was beginning to realise that this was some kind of Daedric death cult. Morag Tong?

            _“No. We are the Dark Brotherhood and I am the Night Mother, the Unholy Matron of the Dread Lord Sithis.”_

Sithis! The oldest and most enigmatic of the Daedric Princes, venerated by some in Valerica’s native Hjaalmarch. She didn’t even know He had human worshippers these days.

            Just outside the sarcophagus, she could hear sniffing. “Blue mountain flower and lavender. Unless you’re dabbling in Conjuration, old boy, someone’s been here.”

            That was Rustem! Valerica raised her hands involuntarily and hit the lid of the sarcophagus.

            It was yanked open to reveal a Redguard with long iron-grey braids and the bluest eyes Valerica had ever seen, the pupils ringed with gold.

            “Darkness rises when silence dies!” she blurted… and felt something shift inside her, a greater darkness absorbing the power of Molag Bal and filling her with rich certitude.

            “The Binding Words,” breathed Cicero, a little red-haired Niben-man wearing jester’s motley, his cheekbones sharp enough to do a mer proud.

            Then he began to dance with glee. “Mother’s spoken again! We have a Listener!”

            “Listener?” Valerica asked stupidly.

            “You hear the Night Mother and relay Her words to us,” Rustem explained as he offered his hand like a gentleman. “Or so my old Speaker told me. There hasn’t been a Listener in over twenty years.”

            “How can the Listener not know she’s the Listener?” Cicero asked.

            “Because in my day, Sithis was a god only worshipped by a few in the Reach and Hjaalmarch,” Valerica told him shakily as she took Rustem’s hand. “I’ve been… exiled for a very long time.”

            “Vampire?” Rustem guided her to a dusty table nearby. Cleanliness clearly wasn’t a priority with them. Nothing a couple raised thralls couldn’t fix.

            “Yes,” Valerica sighed as she sat down. “My husband is an insane maniac intent on blinding the sun so that vampires will rule the world.”

            “I’ve been hearing about the rise of the Dawnguard,” Rustem observed. He was taking this rather calmly. “A couple of bat-winged fuckers tried to kill me last week. They made great disease-curing potions.”

            “Rustem, language!” Cicero said. “The Listener is a lady!”

            “And the ladies talk the dirtiest when no one’s around to hear them,” Rustem countered dryly.

            “I am Valerica and once, I was a queen,” she replied, keeping the self-pity from her voice. “My moon gardens were the talk of Skyrim. Now…”

            “Now you’re the channel between the Night Mother and us,” Rustem told her, sitting down across from her. “Don’t let the surroundings fool you. Once we’ve got a few jobs under our belts, jobs relayed through the Black Sacrament – and maybe a few bounties for the good Jarl of the Pale – we’ll be able to clean this place up and get in some better furnishings.”

            “Cicero is not a bounty hunter,” the jester complained.

            “We don’t have the luxury of being picky,” Rustem told the little Niben-man bluntly. “Consider it practice.”

            “I, ah, take it your order is on hard times?” Valerica asked.

            “Without a Listener, we could only rely on word of mouth about people performing the Black Sacrament,” Rustem answered. “It’s how my Sanctuary in Hammerfell died and the Brotherhood dwindled down to one Sanctuary down in Falkreath. Astrid might be happy to live that way, but I wasn’t.”

            “I’m guessing your ex-wife, the one who hires the Brotherhood to kill for her and considers herself holy, has something to do with it,” Valerica said slowly.

            “How the…? Damn, you really are the Listener. Only way you’d know that is because the Unholy Matron told you.” Rustem sighed and nodded. “Yeah. Astrid threw me out because I want to kill Sigdrifa. We had a daughter together and she let that child be killed by our enemies. I was a bad father and a worse husband but our daughter deserved better.”

            Valerica sucked in a sharp breath. “I have a daughter… and she’s in the greatest danger.”

            _“I don’t mean to diminish your concern, Valerica, but Serana can take care of herself,”_ the Night Mother whispered. _“Forces beyond both of us are gathering against Harkon.”_

_So I’m just supposed to sit here and worry?_

_“Not at all. Just that you need to trust your child is grown enough to handle themselves. It’s hard, I know.”_

            “She’s Listening,” Cicero breathed in awe.

            “We can keep an eye on your daughter,” Rustem promised. “Family is Family, even if they don’t know about the Brotherhood.”

            _“See?”_

“Thank you,” Valerica said with a sigh. “I just…”

            “I know. I got a son back in Hammerfell who’s a trainee Sword-Saint. I hate the idea of not being around to help him, but he’s got to stand for himself.” Rustem sighed again and poured himself some wine. “Rumours about my outside activities might have begun to swirl too. Beroc knew enough to look the other way but Cirroc’s like all young things – damn sure he knows everything and he’s in the right. I decided to leave for a few years so he could study in peace.”

            “Your Cirroc sounds like my Serana,” Valerica said, managing a weak smile. “I’m guessing being an assassin is frowned upon?”

            “Understatement of the Fourth Age. I can kill a dozen bandits and they’ll call me a hero, but assassinate some jackass in silk and they’re all ‘Murderer!’” Rustem snorted and drank some wine. “Ironically, my brother is a proper trained assassin who became a Knight of Arkay. But I, the warrior and leader, wound up in the Dark Brotherhood.”

            “Some people just don’t appreciate the public service we do,” Cicero said huffily. “If Cicero didn’t stab a noble now and then, how could the peasantry ever afford to support them all?”

            Valerica chuckled. “It’s worse in a vampire court. Believe me.”

            _“It’s going to get a lot more interesting,”_ the Night Mother observed. _“Go to Volunruud and seek out Armand Motierre.”_

“Ma putting in her two septims?” Rustem asked.

            “I… have to go to Volunruud and seek out Armand Motierre,” Valerica said slowly.

            “Armand Motierre? Titus Mede’s first paternal cousin and member of the Elder Council?”

            None of those words made sense to Valerica. “I was told Armand Motierre. The Night Mother said it was going to get a lot more interesting.”

            Rustem slowly smiled. “You’re not kidding, Listener. If one chooses to discount the direct line of descent from our current Imperial overlord, half of which was conceived on the wrong side of the sheets, Armand Motierre is the next male heir to the Ruby Throne.”

            Valerica rose to her feet, brushing dust from her robes. “You’re familiar with the man?”

            “Not personally. My father made a bid for the Ruby Throne and it got him crucified, me exiled and my daughter dead. My brother was made Immunitas, which makes you wonder exactly what he did to save his arse.” Rustem shrugged and stood as well. “I’m guessing old Armand’s getting tired of waiting for Titus Mede’s decrepit arse to shuffle off to Akatosh. I can’t imagine any other reason for him to be performing the Black Sacrament.”

            “Oooh!” Cicero’s eyes were wide. “Are we going to be killing the Emperor?”

            “I live in hope,” Rustem answered. “Not because I particularly care about avenging anyone. I just owe that bastard for the hundreds of good men who died to preserve his throne, all so he could sign away half of Hammerfell to the fucking Thalmor.”

            “So, ah, what’s the protocol?” Valerica asked.

            “You go in, introduce yourself, let Armand tell you who he wants dead, how he wants him dead, and ask for a down payment,” Rustem advised. “Cicero and I will come with you but neither of us should be around to meet him. I’m pretty sure there’s a nice little bounty on my head after what I did to Decius Mede.”

            “That was you?” Cicero sounded impressed.

            “Decius decided to get offensive about my second wife,” Rustem replied. “I decided to teach him a lesson.”

            Valerica swallowed. For Rustem’s easy-going banter, she could see why he was an assassin.

            “Family is Family,” he assured her softly. “You’re safe now.”

            _Am I?_ Valerica wondered as she followed them outside. _Am I truly safe anywhere while Harkon lives?_


	2. The Silence Has Been Broken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing.

 

It was a long trip to Volunruud, cutting through the Pale and Hjaalmarch, the second and third worst Holds in Skyrim so far as Rustem was concerned. It was either ploughing through knee-high snow or sloshing through knee-high swamp. Valerica had taken on her bat-winged form, flying over the muck like the vampire queen she proclaimed herself to be, while Rustem and Cicero trudged along like the peons she probably considered them to be. That was a bit unfair. She was trying to adjust after centuries of isolation and Cicero’s arse-kissing only reinforced her arrogance. A few months and she’d be a little less grating.

            They entered the tomb and spotted the Breton lurking in a side room with a hulking Legionnaire behind him. “Weaselly little fucker, isn’t he?” Rustem remarked softly to Cicero.

            “He is a courtier,” the jester replied softly. “Cicero believes weasels to be superior creatures to courtiers.”

            Valerica snorted in amusement after assuming human form. She’d changed her tattered robes for simple red-slashed black cotton ones, but her black hair was still gathered in the twin buns at the back, and she still wore her perfume. “If he proves troublesome, there’s enough corpses to take care of them both.”

            “Thank Sithis for that,” Rustem said dryly. “It’s showtime, Listener.”

            She smiled nervously before going into the room to confront Motierre.

            “By the almighty Divines. You've come. You've actually come. This dreadful Black Sacrament thing... it worked,” Motierre gushed, audible to Cicero and Rustem from where they lurked in the shadows.

            “The Night Mother heard your pleas, Motierre,” Valerica replied, velvet rasping against an ice-cold gravestone.

“Yes, um.... So it would seem. Well, I won't waste your time. I would like to arrange a contract. Several, actually. I daresay, the work I'm offering has more significance than anything your organization has experienced in, well, centuries.” Motierre was rubbing his hands, the words tumbling over his tongue like a stream over stones. Whether he realised it or not, he was intimidated by Valerica.

            The Listener remained silent, watching the Breton like a hawk, and he broke the silence once more. “As I said, I want you to kill several people. You'll find the targets, as well as their manners of elimination, quite varied. I'm sure someone of your disposition will probably even find it enjoyable. But you should know that these killings are but a means to an end. For they pave the way to the most important target. The real reason I'm speaking with a cutthroat in the bowels of this detestable crypt. For I seek the assassination of... the Emperor.”

            Rustem pumped his fist in silent triumph. He knew it! He knew the reason why this weasel-faced fucker came to Skyrim. For once, business and pleasure aligned.

            Valerica continued to stare down at Motierre, who gulped. “It's a shocking request, I know. But it is inside the purview of what you Dark Brotherhood types do. Isn't it? If history is to be believed? You must understand. So much has led to this day. So much planning, and manoeuvring. Now you're here, as if the very stars have finally aligned. But I digress. Here, let me give you these. They are to be delivered to your, um... superior.” He snapped his fingers. “Rexus. The items.”

            The Legionnaire handed over a folded piece of parchment and a knobby velvet-wrapped parcel. Valerica accepted them and opened the parcel to reveal a diamond-shaped pendant of old gold set with a single amethyst.

            “The sealed letter will explain everything that needs to be done. The amulet is quite valuable - you can use it to pay for any and all expenses,” Motierre explained. “Consider it a down payment.”

            Rustem shook his head at the Breton’s audacity. Pawning his own Amulet of the Elder Council to assassinate Titus Mede. That would be one for the history books.

            Valerica nodded and tucked both items into her robes. Then she turned silently and exited the side room.

            “Well, really!” Motierre complained to Rexus.

            The assassins left Volunruud silently and walked towards the Whiterun tundra about a half-league to the south. The white moon was very full and the red moon half-dark in the spectacularly starry sky. Valerica took a deep breath and released it slowly. “Did I do the right thing?”

            “Absolutely. Written instructions and his own badge of office? Motierre’s either dumber than he looks or he’s staking everything on this throw.” Rustem rested the butt of his bladed spear in the frost-sere grass. “The problem is going to be pawning that amulet. I know a buyer in Riften, but he’s going to assume we’re from Speaker Astrid in Falkreath, and things are tense between us. They’ve fallen from the Five Tenets in the years since we lost our Listener and Astrid thinks this is okay.”

            “Would they listen to me?” Valerica asked.

            “Honestly, I don’t know. Astrid is a failed Shieldmaiden and an ally of my ex-wife’s.” Rustem rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Astrid would hate to have anyone hold authority over her. She’s got a hulking werewolf husband to enforce her will and most of the Brotherhood there follow her without question.”

            Valerica cracked open the letter and scanned it. “It’s in code… Something about a wedding and a gift to the bride, a high-ranking military officer, something called a  chef and cooking for the Leader…”

            “Motierre, you murderous son of a bitch,” Rustem breathed. “The bride is Titus Mede’s maternal first cousin, who’s marrying into a Nord clan of some note to try and defuse tensions in Skyrim. The military officer is either Mede’s bastard son Gaius Maro the Elder or Maro’s offspring, imaginatively named Gaius Maro the Younger. The chef – which is a fancy word for master cook – must be the Gourmet, author of _Uncommon Taste._ ”

            “It’s as you’ve said,” Valerica observed, putting the letter back in her robes. “Motierre is clearing out the succession and setting things up to have this Titus Mede poisoned.”

            “That he is. And I have a few ideas to fuel the fire.” Rustem smiled thinly. “It starts with the fact that half of Skyrim is on the verge of revolting because of Imperial abuses…”

…

Astrid was enjoying a cup of hot chocolate freshly imported from Hammerfell when Gabrielle entered the kitchen area. “We have a situation,” the Dunmer sorceress said bluntly.

            “The Keeper’s arrived?” Astrid asked with a sigh, setting her cup aside.

            “No. I suspect he’s met up with a Redguard colleague of mutual affiliation and set up his own Sanctuary.”

            The Speaker sighed. She didn’t want to kill Rustem. He was a Brother, even if they butted heads over the problem of Sigdrifa Stormsword. “That’s… irritating. Are they cutting into our business?”

            “No, but they _have_ set up a line of credit with Delvin Mallory, claiming that they have a Listener.” Gabrielle tossed a piece of parchment on the table in front of Astrid. “Oh, and they killed Vittoria Vici at her own wedding in front of the guests. Well, technically Asgeir Snow-Shod did it, but…”

            “But Rustem’s not above using Illusion spells. Dammit!” Astrid grabbed her cup, drained it dry, and put it back down. “Call everyone down to the main cavern.”

            Soon enough the entire Sanctuary was gathered near the waterfall and the Dragonish-inscribed wall. “We have a rival Sanctuary set up by the Keeper and our old friend Rustem, probably up in Dawnstar,” Astrid said without preamble. “They’re claiming to have a Listener and they’ve already performed a major assassination.”

            Old Festus rubbed his chin. “What if they _do_ have a genuine Listener?”

            “I…” Astrid stared at the mage.

            “Rustem’s reasonable until his ex-wife comes up,” Nazir noted. “If this _is_ a real Listener, Astrid, we should reach out to them. You know we miss out on a lot of jobs.”

            Babette nodded in agreement. “We’re used to independence. If we agree to give lip service to the Night Mother’s authority, we can ask to be allowed to pursue our jobs as we see fit. Cicero’s deluded enough to believe he’s hearing voices but Rustem’s a good deal more rational.”

            Astrid took a deep breath. She loved her Family and would die to protect it. “I’ll meet this Listener. I can promise no more.”

            “I’ll carry the message myself,” Nazir promised. “Cicero sounds irritating but we lost a good man in Rustem.”

            “Sigdrifa’s our… well, she’s the Maven to our Thieves’ Guild,” Astrid admitted. “It isn’t even so much as a Shieldmaiden thing as the fact that half our current jobs are through the Stormsword. Why kill the golden goose?”

            “I have to admit, I wouldn’t mind diversifying,” Nazir said. “I appreciate steady work, but politics can be dangerous, and the Stormsword has a bad history of discarding tools that are no longer useful.”

            “I want to preserve as much of our independence as I can,” Astrid said slowly. “The idea of a Listener meddling where they shouldn’t…”

            “We give a little, we get a little,” Babette said simply. “It’s worth a shot, Astrid. The other choice is to destroy ourselves with futile infighting.”

            Babette was a few hundred years old. If anyone knew the problems that could befall a Sanctuary, she did.

            “I’ll speak to this Listener,” Astrid repeated. “After that, we’ll see.”

…

Astrid was a lithely muscular Plainswoman with long golden hair and a flawlessly sculpted face. “I appreciate the meeting, Listener,” she said in a low, smooth contralto like poisoned honey-wine. “I’m sure you understand we’re quite surprised about the breaking of the silence.”

            “I understand,” Valerica said as she poured a small cup of mead for the woman. “I wish to assure you I’ve got no designs on the independence of Falkreath Sanctuary. Aside from some mutual cooperation where necessary, I see no reason to interfere in how you do business.”

            Astrid relaxed subtly. “I’m relieved to hear you say that. Once, the Listeners ruled all Sanctuaries with an iron fist. With the loss of that authority, everything fractured and eventually shattered.”

            “So I’ve been told.” Valerica pushed the cup towards Astrid. “I’m going to pass all jobs in the southern and western Holds to you while we focus on the north and east. Now, the only exception will be the chain of contracts… But I suspect we’ll be working together and splitting the profits on those.”

            Astrid cradled the cup but didn’t drink. “’Chain of contracts’?”

            “We have a very big target. One Titus Mede, Emperor of Tamriel. Vittoria Vici’s unfortunate demise was the first step.”

            “Fuck me running,” Astrid swore.

            “I believe that’s your husband’s duty, not mine,” Valerica said dryly.

            The hitherto silent werewolf burst out laughing. “I like you.”

            Astrid collected herself and chuckled. “Well played, Valerica, well played. So, what’s the next step?”

            “The framing of Gaius Maro the Younger.” That was Rustem, sitting at Valerica’s left. “And don’t bitch about the plan.”

            The Redguard slid over a piece of parchment written in bold black ink. “Ulfric’s agitating is proving to be a great smokescreen. Arrange Gaius’ death and plant this on his corpse where he can be found.”

            Astrid picked up the forged letter and read it. Then she sighed heavily. “It’s a good plan. But you’re doing this to piss off Sigdrifa.”

            “That’s the bonus, sweetheart. None of us need the Penitus Oculatus sniffing around. Let Ulfric and Sigdrifa take the heat for a change.”

            Astrid bit her bottom lip. “This… could trigger another job of mine, depending how someone chooses to react.”

            “Sigdrifa’s got a contract out on Ulfric? And they say romance isn’t dead.” Rustem leaned back in his seat and shook his head. “The hypocrisy of the Stormsword astonishes me.”

            “I’m not attached to her out of sentimentality,” Astrid retorted. “She’s our most reliable source of work at the moment. Until we’re receiving a steady stream of contracts…”

            “We’ll try not to jeopardise that,” Valerica reassured her, flashing Rustem a glance. “I’m sure you know _why_ Rustem doesn’t like her, right?”

            “Dead kid,” Arnbjorn rumbled.

            “Yes. I’m a mother myself. If my husband manages to hurt my child, I will make his life a waking nightmare…” Valerica sighed. “I apologise, Astrid.”

            “No, I understand the desire to protect family,” the Kreathling Speaker soothed. “I’m a little relieved you’re being reasonable about this.”

            “I lived in the court of one tyrant,” Valerica said simply. “I will not become one myself.”

            “Thank Sithis,” Arnbjorn growled. “So, any instructions on how to kill Gaius, or will you let us do our jobs in peace?”

            “Aside from him dying publicly and framed as a traitor, I trust you to handle the details,” Rustem said with a smile. “While you’re doing that, we’re going to handle the third phase of the contract.”

            “Oh?” Astrid asked, intrigued. “What does that involve?”

            Valerica smiled. “Collecting some new recipes.”


	3. Public Embarrassments

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Yes, I know Astrid becoming Thane of Falkreath has been done in another story by ms_katonic.

 

Gaius Maro the Younger was a stocky handsome Colovian in his early twenties. Young to hold officer rank, even in the Penitus Oculatus, but having the Emperor as your grandfather had almost as many advantages as having your father as Commander had disadvantages. It had been six weeks since Vittoria’s unfortunate death at her own wedding feast and he was dispatched to Skyrim to determine what prompted the assassination. Asgeir Snow-Shod had been taken alive and questioned harshly as his parents were known nationalists. After one interview, it was clear he’d been bespelled or poisoned with a Frenzy spell. The healers at the Temple of All Gods were now tending to the unfortunate man.

            On another day, he might have enjoyed his trip to Whiterun. The local petty king – Jarl, as the Nords called them – was an urbane man with a great grasp of trade and diplomacy that irritated the provincial governor but impressed Gaius. Istlod should just name Balgruuf as his successor. It would be no hardship to move Imperial operations to this warm, welcoming city.

            “Well, hello there, handsome,” purred a seductive voice. “What brings a Legion officer like yourself to Whiterun?”

            Gaius smiled distractedly at the admittedly attractive blonde woman. They were in the marketplace by the well and she was drawing water from it. “I’m betrothed, ma’am,” he told her politely.

            “All the good ones are taken,” she pouted, brushing her hand down his arm and side. “What a shame.”

            Gaius extracted himself from her presence and headed towards the stairs. The marketplace was secure. Now to check the Temple of Kynareth-

            Something stung him in the left arm. Irritated, he rubbed at the insect bite. Whiterun was too far north for mosquitos. Maybe a flying ant?

            By the time he reached the dead tree in the middle of the main square, Gaius was seething. His journey around Skyrim was a waste of time. Vittoria was probably assassinated by a trade rival or maybe one of those Stormcloak rebels.

            “Trust in me, Whiterun! Trust in Heimskr! For I am the chosen of Talos! I alone have been anointed by the Ninth to spread His holy word!”

            Gaius frowned. Balgruuf had signed the White-Gold Concordat. Why was someone preaching illegally in the main square?

            He found the source, a shrieking Nord in brown burlap rags, standing at the foot of an illegal shrine to Talos. “Talos worship is banned by order of the Emperor,” Gaius announced authoritatively. “Cease and desist or be summarily executed.”

            “The so-called Emperor is a coward! That's right, I said coward! Oh yes! He agreed to banish the worship of Talos at the tip of an Aldmeri sword. They called it the ‘White-Gold Concordat.’ Well, I call it blasphemy! A true son of the Empire would never have turned his back on our greatest hero, not at any price. Well, let me tell you something, friend. Cyrodiil is a long way from here, and in Skyrim, we will never forsake mighty Talos!”

            That tore it. This Nord might have been written off as a madman beforehand but now he was talking treason. Gaius drew his gladius and cut the traitor down with one swipe. Then he marched towards the stairs to Dragonsreach. Jarl Balgruuf had some explaining to do.

            Two guards tried to detain him on the stairs and he cut them down without compunction. As an officer of the Penitus Oculatus, he had authority over them.

            There was a whistling and then pain in his throat. Gaius Maro the Younger died choking on his own blood, unaware of the greater plot taking shape around him.

…

“Wow. Two jobs for the price of one.”

            Astrid smiled a little as she accepted a flagon of ale from Arnbjorn. They chose Whiterun because they needed to resupply anyway. “And Balgruuf’s own huscarl killed him.”

            Arnbjorn grinned savagely. “I don’t envy the Jarl his explanations to the Empire.”

            “This might drive him to support Ulfric.” Astrid sighed and settled into the furs as the wagon trundled through Riverwood. “Which is only to the good for Skyrim.”

            “But we have a contract on Ulfric,” Arnbjorn pointed out.

            “It’s a failsafe. Sigdrifa knows she doesn’t have a quarter of Ulfric’s charisma but if Elenwen triggers certain things in him, he’s a liability to the cause. You _do_ know she’s the new Ambassador to Skyrim, right?”

            “I do now.” Arnbjorn drove the wagon for a bit. “That knife cuts both ways. What’s stopping Ulfric from having Sigdrifa killed?”

            “He’s too honourable to think of it.” Astrid laughed a little. “Very black and white, the Jarl of Windhelm.”

            They were by the waterfall when Rustem emerged from the undergrowth, his bladed spear resting easily across his shoulders. “It’s done?”

            “It’s done. We even fulfilled a contract on that lunatic Heimskr.” Astrid smiled up at the handsome Redguard. “How goes your plan?”

            “Well enough. We’re chasing down leads to the identity of the Gourmet. Tamriel will sadly be a blander, less flavourful place afterwards.”

            Some aspects of the ultimate plan fell into place and Astrid laughed. “Oh beautiful! Poisoned soup. What a classic.”

            “The old ones are the best, they say.” Rustem rolled his shoulders. “It’s going to take a few weeks, maybe even two months to locate the Gourmet. Valerica sent on a half-dozen contracts to tide you over.”

            “Bless her. It’s a bit tedious at the moment with nothing to do.” Astrid sighed and accepted the sheaf of papers Rustem gave her.

            “Have you thought about collecting bounties?” Rustem suggested. “I’ve got the Jarl of Dawnstar eating out of my hand, a reputation for heroism and the option to become Thane if I ever want to buy a parcel of land thanks to the roaming bandits of Skyrim.”

            “That’s… fucking genius.” Arnbjorn regarded Rustem with new respect as Astrid sat up. “There’s a bit of land for sale up past Pinewatch.”

            “If I learnt anything from the fall of the Skaven Sanctuary, it was ‘have a bolthole for when things go wrong’,” Rustem said softly. “Things are going well now, but Commander Maro’s not an idiot. That’s assuming my darling ex-wife doesn’t throw you under the cart.”

            “You have a point,” Astrid admitted. She had no illusions about Sigdrifa. Thankfully, the Speaker had insurance. “We’ll look into doing it.”

            “Sooner than later. It takes a while to build a palatial estate.” Rustem smiled and faded back into the forest.

            “Thane of Falkreath. Wouldn’t that be something?” Arnbjorn finally said.

            Astrid smiled. “Diplomatic immunity will come in handy. Say, hasn’t Embershard Mine been taken over by bandits?”

            Her husband grinned savagely. Time to do a public service.

…

“SIGDRIFA!”

            The Stormsword sighed. Ulfric was in a fouler mood than usual today. Since Bjarni started openly defying them and Egil went off to fight vampires, her husband’s temper had progressively worsened. Neither son was following the plans they’d set. More gallingly, they were gaining fame and respect. Bjarni even had his own honour-name of Blue-Axe for the stalhrim weapon he wielded.

            “What is it now?” she snapped as she entered the Great Hall. Ulfric was slouched on the Throne of Ysgramor, half-empty goblet of mead in hand. Galmar was to his left and Ralof to his right, both looking grim.

            “Heimskr was murdered in Whiterun yesterday afternoon,” Ulfric replied in a low quiet voice. “By Gaius Maro the Younger, grandson to the Emperor.”

            “He will be received well by the Stormcrown,” Sigdrifa said.

            “Better than you.” Ulfric thrust a piece of parchment at her. “Explain this and explain it well. Or you will be dead by sunset.”

            The writing on the parchment was a good forgery of hers. The deal would even be one she would consider making if she’d thought of it.

            “Ulfric,” she said carefully, “Do you really think I’d arrange something like this and let Heimskr die? If I was going to martyr the man, I would have replicated Elenwen’s writing, not used my own.”

            Ulfric grunted. “Everyone is a tool to you, aren’t they?”

            “We are all tools in the hands of the gods,” she reminded him.

            Ulfric’s smile was twisted. “When a tool is no longer useful, it’s discarded. How much did you pay Astrid for the contract on me?”

            “I haven’t paid her a damn thing for your life,” Sigdrifa countered. That was true. Money would be paid on Ulfric’s death, which might be sooner than she intended. If he was growing suspicious…

            Ralof blinked. The hearthman was remarkably naïve for a man who’d spent half his life in the Jarl’s court.

            “You’re not half as clever as you think you are,” Ulfric said, shifting on his throne. “Egil is of age and proving himself a competent leader. I give you this warning, Stormsword, for your past services to Skyrim. Step carefully.”

            Sigdrifa smiled thinly. That knife cut both ways.

            “If you’re done threatening me, my lord husband, I’ll go back to what I was doing,” she said aloud. “Making plans to free Skyrim from the Empire.”

            “Sigdrifa…” Ulfric’s smile was grim. “If I die, you will be dead within the day. Even if it’s an accident.”

            “Then you’re a bigger fool than I realised,” she said flatly before turning away.


	4. The Vengeance of the Reach-King

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Playing a bit with ‘No One Escapes from Cidhna Mine’.

 

“Did you hear? The cook up at Understone Keep had a heart attack.”

            Rustem took a hefty swig of ale to conceal his grin. Valerica’s poison worked like a charm. Some nocturnal infiltration, a little quiet interrogation and a poisoned bone needle got him the identity of the Gourmet and the abused kitchen servants some much-needed peace. Maybe one of them could be promoted to cook.

            “That’s a gruesome weapon there, friend.” One of the inn’s guests, a middle-aged Redguard in soft green wool, reached out to tap the naginata leaning against the stone counter. “Are you a mercenary?”

            “I prefer ‘gentleman adventurer at large’,” Rustem replied dryly. “I like to travel and occasionally selling my fighting skills funds said travel.”

            “My grandfather was like that. My father and I are jewellers.” The Redguard turned to the innkeeper and said, “A flagon of Barley-Beard Gold for me and my new friend.”

            Rustem grinned. “It’ll take more than one flagon to win me over.”

            The jeweller smiled. “I’m sure. Say… would you be willing to travel to Falkreath? I do have some paying work for a skilled fighter.”

            Rustem shuddered. “I sympathise, I really do, but I have a crazy ex-wife from that place and I’m pretty sure her family would love to give her my head on a platter.”

            The innkeeper brought the flagons and the jeweller handed him some gold. “Ah. Could you pass on the word that Endon of Markarth has good coin for anyone willing to retrieve a set of silver moulds for him?”

            “I’ll see what can be done,” Rustem promised. “Why not hire the Companions?”

            “I tried, but Balgruuf’s contracted them already,” Endon said sourly. “Something about a ranking Legion officer going mad, killing a priest of Talos and two guards, and getting shot in the throat by the Jarl’s own huscarl.”

            Rustem reached for the fresh flagon and took a long swallow. It was a dark malt with a syrupy finish. “Tragic,” he murmured. “What is this world coming to?”

            “I know. First Vittoria Vicci’s own husband and then this Legion officer…” Endon shuddered. “I think it’s a bad batch of Colovian brandy, myself. I never drink the stuff.”

            “I’m an ale man myself,” Rustem said, lifting his flagon. “This is a good brew.”

            “Barley-Beard Gold,” Endon said with a smile. “It’s the Black-Briar Reserve of ales in Skyrim.”

            “So instead of horker piss, the brewer uses his own?”

            Endon burst out laughing, spraying beer everywhere. “I’ve got to tell Dagmar that one next time I’m in Whiterun! He’ll think it’s hilarious.”

            “A Nord with a sense of humour. Maybe I should stop by and meet this paragon.” Rustem finished his flagon in one long swallow. “I appreciate the drink and I’ll pass on word. Are you, ah, bothered by any means used to acquire the silver moulds?”

            “Look, I’m so frustrated that I’m tempted to reach out to the Thieves’ Guild,” Endon said, wiping his bearded chin. “Satakal guide your steps, cousin.”

            “And yours.” Rustem nodded and picked up his naginata before leaving the tavern.

            “There he is!” Three guards in Markarth’s dark green tabard surrounded him.

            “Can I help you?” Rustem asked, tightening his grip on his weapon.

            “Sure you can.” A balding Nord in fine brocade stepped between the guards. “Did you think you could gallivant around Skyrim unrecognised, Rustem Aurelius? The Stormsword’s promised some fine trading concessions for your head.”

            Rustem smiled. “Too bad you won’t be able to enjoy them.”

            He managed to kill Sigdrifa’s friend but the naginata wasn’t a weapon for close quarter fighting and so the guards overwhelmed him. One applied a dagger-pommel to the side of his head and Rustem saw nothing but blackness after that.

…

He was rudely awakened to the unlovely face of an Orcish sellsword throwing piss-flavoured water over him. “Get up,” she growled. “It’s the mines for you.”

            “You should chew granite,” he drawled. “Your tusks look a little blunt.”

            Bad move. She punched him in the gut and two of her minions dragged him to the open gate, throwing him into the pit that was Cidhna Mine before locking it.

            He lay there wheezing as another Orc, this one male, wandered over and looked down at him. “Rustem Aurelius?”

            He nodded and the Orc smiled. With his broken rotting tusks, it wasn’t a pretty look. “Madanach wants to talk to you.”

            Rustem pulled himself up, panting. “Royal… audience?”

            “Be honoured. Few meet him in person.”

            “Let me.. catch… breath…”

            “Take your time.”

            So Rustem did. He eyed the prisoners, most of who had the complex tattoos of the Reachfolk, and studied the guard patterns just outside. He was going to gut that Orc if it was the last thing he ever did.

            Finally, he went down a small tunnel to a separate little cave, where the legendary King in Rags sat at a table writing something. “Help yourself to some wine,” Madanach suggested in a gravelly voice. “I believe you and I have something to toast.”

            “That depends on what you want to toast,” Rustem said as he poured some resinous wine into a dirty wooden cup.

            “The death of Thonar Silver-Blood, of course.” Madanach closed his small leather journal.

            “Was that his name? I didn’t get it before I killed him.” Rustem sipped a little wine. It tasted slightly better than piss. “He is… was… a friend of my ex-wife.”

            “Sigdrifa Stormsword. Her and Ulfric are a fine match. What she and he did to my people…” Madanach drank some wine with a shaking hand. “Fine work you did with Anton. I’d have expected your brother to be the servant of Sithis, not you.”

            “You know I’m a Brother?” Rustem asked in some surprise.

            “You reek of the power of Sithis.” Madanach smiled a little. “We recognise Him as a god here, so you do holy work, maybe holier work than your brother and his false god Arkay.”

            “We have a Listener again,” Rustem said softly.

            “Praise the Dread Father.” The King in Rags finished his wine. “I need to ask a favour of you, child of Sithis. In return, we will leave this place together.”

            “Name it.”

            Madanach smiled a little. “The Silver-Bloods have a snitch named Grisvar. Thongvor’s probably all confused since his brother’s dead but one word about our impending escape…”

            “And he’ll find his wits again.” Rustem rolled his shoulders. “Where can I find the charming Grisvar?”

            Grisvar was located in a secluded corner of the mine, watching two Forsworn chip silver ore out of the rock. “Don’t mind me, gentlemen,” Rustem told the two miners, “Madanach’s just asked me to take out the trash.”

            One emaciated prison snitch, even a Nord, wasn’t a match for a Redguard warrior just a little past his prime. Rustem dropped the man’s corpse as shouts in the Forsworn’s gutturally musical tongue echoed throughout the mine.

            By the time he returned to the cavern, Madanach was addressing his people. “The time has come for us to leave,” the King in Rags said simply. “Sithis sent one of His own to chastise Thonar Silver-Blood as a sign for us to rise up and pry the grip of the lowlanders from our beloved Reach!”

            “Hi,” Rustem said as eyes turned in his direction.

            “Thongvor will come,” one chap he’d heard addressed as Duach pointed out.

            “I hope so,” Madanach growled. “We can make a clean sweep of the family.”

            They filed through the tunnel to a door, which Madanach unlocked with a touch, and through a neglected part of the original Dwemer keep complete with copper automatons. They were met by several Forsworn in their outlandish garb, weapons and armour handed out. Rustem received his leathers but not his naginata.

            “Thongvor sent it out of the city,” the soft-voiced female Forsworn said in response to his questioning glance. “Can you use a sword?”

            “Yeah. I was just sentimentally attached to that weapon.” He took a heavy-bladed Orcish sword.

            “Kaie, this man is a son of Sithis and a Reach-friend,” Madanach said quietly. “He killed Thonar.”

            “I know.” Kaie nodded to Rustem. “Let’s go. It’s dawn and the change of guard-shift.”

            The Forsworn streamed out of Understone Keep and killed every guard in their way. One heavily armoured Nord, presumably Thongvor Silver-Blood, headed straight for Madanach but died on three Forsworn javelins. Rustem hung back, settling for shoving fleeing guards back into the fray and enjoying the mayhem. Madanach was efficient.

            They met up again near the copper gates. “Give my regards to the Listener,” the Reach-King said, pulling a javelin from the dying gate-guard. “Tell your friends to be careful. The Reach will be a dangerous place for outsiders.”

            “I will,” he promised. “Go and give the Stormcloaks some hell.”

            Madanach smiled savagely and was gone with his people, leaving only the dead and dying.

            Rustem left Markarth too, just to be on the safe side.


	5. Making Plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. I use Cutting Floor by Arthmoor, so Nightgate Inn is surrounded by Heljarchen village.

 

Rustem returned two days late without his precious bladed spear and signs of a beating. He waved away Valerica when she tried to approach him, instead reducing one of the empty coffins in the ruined Sanctuary to firewood with the heavy-bladed Orcish sword he carried. After consulting with Cicero and the Night Mother, she concluded it was appropriate to raise the skeletons of their dead Brothers and Sisters as mindless labour to bring some order to the Sanctuary. Their souls were in the Void and beyond caring. Their brittle bones could provide one final use.

            It wasn’t until dinner that Rustem joined them, adding the scraps of coffin to the pile of scavenged firewood by the cooking pit and leaning the Orcish sword against the table. The man was never without a weapon in easy reach, even when asleep, and Valerica wondered what sort of life he’d endured to make him so.

            “The good news is that I have the identity of the Gourmet,” he said tightly. “The bad news is that Sigdrifa knows I’m in Skyrim and she’s sicced her Stormcloak friends on me. One of them had me thrown in Cidhna Mine and sent my naginata to that insane bitch.”

            “Even Cicero has noticed you are a noticeable man,” the jester said sympathetically.

            That was the truth. How many Redguards had long fine braids and blue eyes in Skyrim?

            “Perhaps it may be wise if someone else deals with this Gourmet,” Valerica suggested gently.

            “Getting a little stir-crazy, Listener? Be my guest.” Rustem sighed and let his temper go just like that. “We need to think of finding a new base while we’re at it. This place is secure enough for the moment, but I’d rather somewhere a little more conducive to travel. I already suggested to Astrid and Arnbjorn they should become Thanes in Falkreath and build their own estate.”

            “That will take time and money,” Valerica said slowly.

            “Time, we have. We know where the Gourmet is and he’s not going anywhere soon. The Penitus Oculatus brought him north to cook for the Emperor and stashed him at Heljarchen Village, which is to the south and east, the first major stop outside of Windhelm if you’re travelling overland to Dawnstar.” Rustem poured himself a cup of water from the jug.  “It will take time for news of Gaius Maro’s death to reach Titus Mede. Vittoria’s death necessitates his presence now, but he won’t travel by land. That leaves him open to capture by any number of people who hate him. That means he’s got a sea voyage of several months through Iliac Bay, stopping at every coastal city in High Rock or risk pissing off his paternal cousins who help pay his bills, and finally docking in Solitude.”

            He drank some water before continuing. “Not to mention the fact that people noticed similarities between Asgeir’s madness and Maro’s poisoning. It’s time to let this stock simmer for a while, Listener, and worry about the smaller contracts. It’ll be spring soon and that means sowing time. Mede won’t be here until late summer at best. Let the folk worry about the crops and put the death of nobles from their mind before we return to this job.”

            “I accept we have time. I’m a vampire, Rustem. I have nothing but time.” Valerica drummed her fingers on the table. “Now money for this grand estate of yours…”

            “There’s plenty of Nord tombs around here. They go for the grand mausoleums in the Old Holds,” Rustem immediately replied. “We’ve got the choice of Hjaalmarch, which is a weird bog place full of weird bog people-“

            “ _I’m_ from Hjaalmarch,” Valerica interrupted testily.

            “You have my condolences,” he replied without missing a beat. “Hjaalmarch is close to Solitude. More cosmopolitan there but more likely to run into Legionnaires who will recognise me, if only because they know my brother Irkand. The other option is Heljarchen Hall, which is at the south end of the Pale just before the border with Whiterun.”

            Valerica pursed her lips. “Both sites have their advantages. I say we acquire both.”

            “It’s viable, Listener, but Astrid may not be happy if you strip Falkreath Sanctuary to man one somewhere else. Each Sanctuary needs a minimum of three people to be worth the effort.”

            “I will speak to Astrid on the matter but the Night Mother’s been insistent on me recruiting some new people,” Valerica told him. “She’s even given me the name of one candidate in Whiterun. One Jenassa.”

            Rustem nodded. “I’ve heard of her. Known for stealth and a complete lack of remorse.”

            “So she’ll be right at home.” Valerica studied her finger nails. “Any other possible recruits?”

            “Cicero knows of people who wander through the night, who won’t have a problem with cutting throats and stealing everything in sight,” the jester suggested.

            Valerica stared at the man. Had he gone completely insane?

            “The Thieves’ Guild,” Rustem explained. “Delvin was part of the Falkreath Sanctuary after a job went wrong in Riften and we occasionally hire their people to break into places we can’t or acquire things we need. Mercer Frey doesn’t give a shit about cross-work unless it interferes with Guild business or leaves a trail that can be followed back to them.”

            “Delvin… He was the one who bought Motierre’s amulet?” Valerica rubbed her chin thoughtfully. “Would he be interested in returning?”

            “I don’t know. He’s Night Master in the Guild, so he’s got responsibilities he can’t avoid.” Rustem spread his hands. “But if he can’t join us, he’ll know people who can.”

            Valerica nodded. “Then while we handle our current set of contracts, we shall reach out to these candidates. Rustem, we have a contract on one Anoriath in Whiterun. Handle it and hire Jenassa. If she’s as ruthless as you say, the idea of steady work should appeal to her. I’ve passed on the Khajiit contract to Astrid as her people have more mobility than us. The Argonian on the coast… I’ll deal with him myself. As you said before, I’m getting a little… stir-crazy.”

            “As you wish, Listener. Take Cicero with you. I know you can handle one Argonian, but accidents happen, and we’ve just got a Listener. I’d hate to lose you again when we’re getting back on our feet.”

            “Please,” Cicero said simply. Valerica knew he had fears of being abandoned again.

            “Your company will be welcome,” she said with a smile. “Maybe you can explain some of your jokes. Humour has changed in five thousand years.”

            “Cicero will be pleased to make the Listener laugh,” the jester crowed merrily.

            “I’ll pay for Heljarchen Hall before I head out,” Rustem said with a smile. “They’ll deliver the materials for a basic cottage by the time I return. Since it’s winter, there’s plenty of labourers who will be looking for work. We can trust them to build the basics and handle the rest ourselves.”

            “Wonderful. When you’re done, head down to Riften. You may be noticeable but you’re known to the Guild.”

            Rustem nodded. “Easy enough. I might see if I can hire them to get my naginata back.”

            Valerica shook her head. “I know you’re fond of the weapon but it needs to wait. I want these two new Sanctuaries operating before we worry about personal business.”

            The Redguard exhaled explosively but nodded. “Fine. I’ll look into raising some more money instead.”

            “Please do.” Valerica wasn’t going to ask how he was going to do that. Some things were better off not known by those in charge.

            She smiled a little. It was good to be around people again.

…

“Maro.”

            The Commander of the Penitus Oculatus looked up from the paperwork he’d been staring at for hours, trying to focus his mind on protecting his father when all it wanted to do was weep at the murder of his son, and saw the silhouette of a stocky man in the open doorway. Then the door was shut quietly and the candlelight revealed the stern, aquiline features of Irkand Aurelius, the bronze amulet of Arkay that hung around his neck, and the gold-hilted katana slung across his back.

            “Aurelius.” Maro gestured to the other seat at the table. “You got my message?”

            “Yes. It was fortunate. My work with the Dawnguard was necessary but Isran seems to have everything in hand. It was getting hard to keep my temper around Egil Ulfricsson.” The Knight of Arkay sat gracefully at the table. “I took some liberties and stopped off at Whiterun to collect young Gaius’ effects.”

            Maro swallowed thickly, trying to blink back tears. He had a daughter back in Cyrodiil, but Gaius was to be the one to walk in his footsteps. “I appreciate it.”

            “He was given proper last rites and doesn’t linger on this plane. Father Andurs knows his business.” Irkand reached into his satchel and pulled out a small pouch, emptying its meagre contents. The last letter Maro sent his son, the golden signet ring of their gens and the amulet of Akatosh fell out. “Balgruuf was appropriately horrified when he found out the truth and permitted me to examine the body before it was cremated.”

            “They held his body?” Maro asked.

            “Yes. To understand why a fit young man of previously sound mind should snap and kill three people. Farengar had checked for traces of magicka and found none. So I checked for traces of poison and… found this.” Irkand produced a tiny bone sliver, thin as a nail-paring and no longer than a thumbnail. “A very potent Frenzy poison. Probably troll fat and Falmer ear. The berserker mushrooms are faster-acting but also much less concentrated.”

            Maro inhaled shakily and released the breath in a rush. “My son was murdered.”

            “And probably framed. The letter purportedly sent by Sigdrifa Stormsword is gone, probably taken out of Whiterun by a Stormcloak agent, so I can’t verify its veracity.” Irkand’s mouth twitched slightly. “She is many things but not so foolish as to leave evidence of collusion.”

            “But they’re planning a rebellion,” Maro pointed out softly.

            “Yes. Sigdrifa is lightning and Ulfric is thunder. They will make a dramatic first move to kick it off.” Irkand’s mouth twitched a little more into something resembling a smile. “That’s assuming they don’t kill each other first. News from Windhelm is that things are rather tense between them. No surprise. You can’t yoke two egos like theirs for long before things get awkward.”

            “I’ll see if my agents can’t make it worse,” Maro said grimly. For the first time in days, he almost felt like himself. “So if it wasn’t the Stormcloaks who murdered my son…”

            “I’m not erasing the Stormcloaks from the list of suspects. Sigdrifa’s relationship with the Dark Brotherhood is decidedly cosy. She’s not above softening targets before striking.” Irkand studied the needle. “Though the mind behind these acts is more subtle than I anticipated. Astrid has a certain… flair, as do most of her people. If I hadn’t found a similar bone needle in Asgeir Snow-Shod’s effects, I would have expected a bad batch of mead or a crude attempt at sabotaging peacemaking efforts by the Stormcloaks.”

            If anyone knew assassins, it was Irkand Aurelius. “So you think the Brotherhood’s responsible?”

            “They’re the tool being used to carry out another’s will,” Irkand corrected mildly. “I have a plan to draw them out. We’ll probably have to sacrifice one of your father’s body doubles though.”

            Maro’s jaw dropped. “You think this…?”

            “It’s a bigger game and the Emperor’s life is the prize. I don’t want to tell you how to handle security, but put guards around your daughter and Armand Motierre. I don’t know who’s behind this plot, but candidates include dear old Elenwen and her husband Nurancar, half the Counts of Cyrodiil, and Mede’s paternal relatives. Even Sigdrifa, though very much at the bottom.”

            Maro nodded. “You’re the expert. So what’s our plan…?”

            Irkand began to talk softly and Maro dared to feel hope that his son would be avenged.


	6. In the Shadows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. I had to write Chapter 3 of ‘Shadows Find Me’ to set up something in this one.

 

Anoriath died on the plains of Whiterun, another victim of the sabre cats and wolves that roamed the grasslands. Jenassa participated quite happily in the job and was even happier to accept steady work. Rustem arranged for supplies to go up to Heljarchen Hall just over the border, where his new housecarl Gregor was happy to watch over the workers hired to get the basic hall and gardens sorted out, and then caught the carriage to Riften with Jenassa as company.

            He walked through the now-familiar Ratway, killing two would-be muggers and stripping their corpses, and came to the Ragged Flagon. The thief-tavern hadn’t changed too much, though one of the alcoves built into the walls was now occupied by a buxom woman with a long black braid scrubbing decades of accumulated dirt from the stones. Two of the Thieves, red-haired Brynjolf and albino Vex, were watching her with bemused expressions while old Delvin was chatting to a young black-haired woman.

            “Speak of the Daedra and he appears,” the shaven-headed Breton said with a wry smile. “Rustem, this is Ingun. Ingun, this is Rustem.”

            Rustem smirked at the Night Master. “I appreciate the thought, but unlike you, I don’t need help in meeting attractive women.”

            Ingun blushed a little. “Delvin was saying you have contacts with the Dark Brotherhood. I’d like to join – or at least offer my services as an alchemist.”

            The warrior sat down at the table, Jenassa taking a position behind him. “It’s not as romantic as you might think it is. Currently, both Sanctuaries are in flux, and we already have two alchemists. Unlike the Guild, you need to get your hands dirty with more than herbs.”

            “He’s sayin’, Ingun, that you need to be prepared to murder,” Delvin told the girl bluntly. “Now I know you’re into the art of poisoning, but to be a murderer is something else.”

            “I’m due to be married soon,” Ingun said and the bitterness of her voice surprised Rustem. “My mother cares only for power and how she can use her wealth and politics to pursue it. She gives orders and expects them to be carried out. I want to belong to something bigger, greater, than petty politics.”

            “I’m not saying ‘no’. But none of us have the time to piss around and pretend to be heroic assassins or tortured souls. Most of us are fuck ups who can’t find a family anywhere else.” Rustem folded his arms and stared Ingun down. “If this is Maven’s attempt to get the northern Sanctuary under her control, tell her to put her grubby little mitts where the sun doesn’t shine.”

            “What if I prove myself?” Ingun countered.

            “It’ll take more than poisoning some poor bastard’s drink,” Rustem told her.

            Ingun’s smile was grim. “I promise you, the target is quite deserving. Give me two weeks.”

            Rustem shrugged. “Sure. Send me the proof via Delvin and we’ll talk.”

            “Thank you!” Ingun’s smile was bright as she stood. “Delvin, just deliver the herbs to Elgrim.”

            “Sure thing.” Delvin touched his forehead and she scampered off, stopping to say farewell to the woman cleaning the alcove.

            “The Listener wants us to expand, but is it wise to send Maven Black-Briar’s girl to us?” Rustem asked as Jenassa took Ingun’s seat.

            “Girl’s a born killer,” Delvin said quietly. “Better she be with your lot than setting up shop somewhere and experimentin’ on relative innocents.”

            “Well, she can prove it. But if Maven thinks this’ll get her a discount, she can go fuck herself.”

            “You might be one of the few people who dare say that about her.” Delvin shook his head. “So what can I do for ya?”

            Rustem outlined the need for supplies and the Brotherhood’s plan for expansion. Once he was done, Delvin nodded. “That’s a damn good idea, getting one of your people as Thane in a Hold. Might borrow it myself. But don’t overdo it, yeah?”

            “Did you want to teach me how to peel an egg too?” Rustem said dryly.

            “Practicality’s a bit thin on the Brotherhood side. You’re nutjobs, zealots or way into the work to not appreciate the fine art of not getting caught,” Delvin replied bluntly. “Sometimes I have to make sure.”

            “I was a military commander before I joined the Brotherhood.” Rustem rubbed the side of his nose. “So you can get what we need?”

            “Sure I can. Hell, you came in good time. We hijacked a caravan of lumber.”

            “Yeah, only because a certain bald idiot mistook ‘firs’ for ‘furs’,” Vex said over her shoulder.

            “Speaking of idiots, did you manage to pawn that amulet I brought in?” Rustem asked.

            “You kiddin’ me? There’s a bidding war going on for it. We’re at twelve thousand septims right now.” Delvin grinned. “Lots of blackmail material in that little beauty.”

            “Don’t scare him. He’s promised us a hell of a lot more money when we’re done.” Rustem smiled at the Thief. “So, out of curiosity, how easy is it to get into the Palace of the Kings and get something fairly big out of there?”

            “Brynjolf, you’ve robbed the place twice. What do you think?” Delvin asked the redhead.

            “Not easy, lad, not for something big. I take it you’ve lost your big bladed spear?” The Day Master turned his back on the industriously scrubbing peasant. She didn’t look like the sort to work for the Guild but what did Rustem know?

            “More like the Silver-Bloods jumped me in Markarth and sent it to the hell-hag who rules Windhelm,” Rustem admitted. “On the upside, I helped kill them and unleash the King in Rags on the Reach once more.”

            “The High King’s free again? Praise the old gods,” Brynjolf said with surprising fervour. “That’ll be one up Ulfric’s nose.”

            “Yeah. Just be careful in the Reach. I think the Forsworn are going to cause trouble in earnest and while they honour Sithis, I don’t think they’d be friendly to Thieves.”

            “I’ve got clan-ties,” Brynjolf said simply. “As for your spear, as much as I’d like to piss off the Stormsword a little more, I want to be more sure of the Guild’s luck before I try something so brazen.”

            “Brazen? You ran the woman’s knickers up with the fucking banners!” Delvin exclaimed. “How is stealin’ a spear anything compared to that?”

            “I was seventeen and convinced I was immortal then,” Brynjolf said wryly. “There’s old thieves and there’s bold thieves but there’s no old bold thieves.”

            Rustem favoured the man with a grin. “I’d have paid good money to see that.”

            “Totally worth the bitching Gallus did.” Brynjolf chuckled a little. “By the way, do we have any whitewash? Korli wants to paint the walls.”

            “We’re lettin’ her stay for free in return for some potions and she’s already redecoratin’ the place,” Delvin said with a shake of his head. “Next thing you know, she’ll be hanging them snowberry wreaths up and telling us to eat our porridge before it gets cold.”

            “She’s already got the wreath planned. It’s an old Nord custom to honour Kyne,” Brynjolf said with a smile. “She’s the alchemist and she says that painting the walls will make them easier to clean. I don’t like drinking dirt with my potions; do you?”

            “I’ll take a look,” Delvin sighed. “Her potions better be fucking worth it.”

            “Ingun was mildly impressed with her skills. We don’t need an experimenter, we just need someone who can make decent brews and quack potions that won’t poison anyone.”

            “She had a Stone of Barenziah, Delvin,” Vex added over her shoulder. “You know what that means.”

            “Yeah, yeah, Lady Luck likes her.” Delvin sighed again. “Was there anything else you needed, Rustem?”

            “Nah, we’re good.” Rustem rose to his feet. “Deliver the stuff to Heljarchen Hall. Anyone tries to screw with you there, let me know. I’m officially a Thane.”

            Delvin smiled evilly. “You’ll hear the screams from Windhelm.”

            “That’s the bonus.”

            He cast another glance at the alcove as he went past. From the back, she looked a bit like Sigdrifa. He wouldn’t insult her by making the comparison.

            Outside Riften, he cracked his knuckles. “Alright, Jenassa. There’s a couple bandit dens and an old Nord tomb in the Rift. What do you say about killing everything inside and taking their stuff?”

            The mercenary smiled. “I thought you’d never ask.”

…

Rustem arrived with a Dunmer woman in chitin armour, both laden with packs of goods that Valerica had to admit were impressive. “We might be getting another recruit,” he said as he dumped the pack at the doorway. “Ingun Black-Briar. Girl’s apparently a born poisoner.”

            “Might be?” Valerica asked curiously.

            “I told her to prove she had the gumption and send proof to us via Delvin,” he admitted. “I made it clear that if Maven wanted a discount, she could go fuck herself.”

            “As you can tell, Rustem is a social butterfly,” the Dunmer said dryly. “I am Jenassa. Blade and shadow, silence and death - these are my arts. For a modest fee, I'll make great art for you.”

            “My dear, it is my very great hope that we can pay you more than whatever you earned as a mercenary,” Valerica told her. “This is only our temporary abode in Dawnstar.”

            “Yes, I saw Heljarchen Hall. Impressive.” Jenassa dropped her pack by Rustem’s. “I’m not a devout worshipper of the Three Good Daedra, so you need not worry about my allegiances.”

            “Mephala has an assassin order called the Morag Tong,” Rustem explained. “Somewhere along the line, they and the Brotherhood had a little fight. They’ve held a mutual grudge ever since.”

            _“It’s more complicated than that,”_ the Night Mother whispered. _“Mephala is the prince of murder but she cannot accept that Sithis is the true god of death.”_

“Understatement of the past four thousand years,” Jenassa drawled.

            “I’ll take your word for it. I was trapped in the Soul Cairn for five thousand,” Valerica said dryly.

            “Soul Cairn?”

            “Where soul-trapped spirits go. I managed to escape with my daughter’s help but since she read an Elder Scroll to banish an undead dragon, I can’t access it or even communicate with the Ideal Masters.” She sighed. “I fear my necromancy won’t be as good as I wished.”

            “I love how you say that so casually,” Rustem said wryly. Then he looked around. “Where’s Cicero?”

            “On a couple minor jobs. Little things, barely worth five hundred septims. But he was bored and as much as I appreciate his loyalty, I needed a break.”

            “Cicero unleashed on Skyrim without adult supervision. Sithis have mercy on us all.” Rustem snorted in amusement. “I’ll check in at the White Hall and see if Skald has any more bounties. Heard from Astrid yet?”

            “Yes. It was a simple thing to become Thane. Apparently Dengeir’s been set aside by the nobility – or the Empire, the story’s unclear – and replaced by one Siddgeir. He’s supposed to be a spendthrift dandy loyal to the Cyrods.”

            Rustem grinned. “I’ve heard of him. Sigdrifa must be pissed. Wait until she gets news I’m a Thane with diplomatic immunity in all nine Holds.”

            Valerica shook her head. “Don’t let your grudge get in the way of your duty.”

            “I’m not. I’m just enjoying the thought of her discomfort immensely.” Rustem nodded with a smile. “I’m off to get some sleep. Goodnight, Listener, Jenassa.”

            He went off to the sleeping quarters and Valerica sighed. She knew why he hated this woman and even understood. But watering grudges with blood only worsened things. She knew that from Harkon.

            She turned to Jenassa. Time to get to know this new Sister and what she could do.


	7. Laying New Ground

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. The events referenced here after from the last chapter of ‘A Red and Bloody Dawn’. Trigger warning for some misogyny and mentions of death, torture and imprisonment.

 

“Your Majesty, we’ve contained the fires. Damage was less than we expected but the next two months will be leaner than usual until we can harvest spring-sown vegetables. Rumour is that the Dawnguard fought off the Volkihar vampires and those bolts were a side effect of a powerful weapon used in the battle.”

            Istlod sighed and waved away Thane Bryling, who bowed stiffly and moved to the side. The features and garments were different but the dance of the court at Solitude was little different to that of the Emperor’s court back in the Imperial City. Irkand leaned on the balcony and watched various nobles and prosperous landowners present requests for reparation. He could detect no sign of treason in the people present… but a traitor could delude themselves into believing they weren’t breaking sacred oaths, instead working towards a higher purpose.

            “Quaint, isn’t it?”

            Irkand glanced to the side as Elenwen, in all her spiteful glory, approached. “Not the word I’d use. Hello, Elenwen. How’s the lung wound going?”

            A flicker of anger burned in her saffron eyes before she assumed her look of perpetual arrogance. “About as well as your father did on the cross. I thought we were all friends now.”

            “Yes, you aren’t waiting for all the veterans of the Great War to die before you try to wipe us out again,” Irkand responded sardonically. “What did you want? Run out of Talos-worshipping Nords to interrogate? I hear there’s thousands in the Old Holds.”

            “That’s what I like about you, Irkand. We don’t have to pretend to be nice to each other.”

            “Yes, because you can’t maintain that façade of sanity for more than five minutes. What do you want?”

            “I just thought I’d let you know your brother’s been seen in Markarth.” Elenwen examined her black-lacquered nails. “Sadly, he was thrown into Cidhna Mine. He _did_ manage to kill one of Ulfric’s supporters though, so there’s something.”

            Irkand had three decades of Thalmor trying to bait him. He kept his face serene and his fists unclenched. “Rustem made his choices years ago, old girl, just as my father did. I hear your friend Ancano died at the College of Winterhold. What was it like to know the Thalmor’s end-goal was within grasp and Ulfric’s eldest boy ruined it?”

            “A minor setback,” Elenwen said, a slight edge to her voice. “Who’d have thought Ulfric and Sigdrifa could throw a competent mage?”

            “I’m sure you’re already preparing the assassins.”

            “It’s in both our nations’ interests to see the Stormcloaks dealt with.”

            “No, it’s in your interests to bleed the Empire through Skyrim. You conditioned Ulfric well.”

            “It’s always nice to have one’s work recognised.” Elenwen sighed in mock sorrow. “Pity about young Callaina. The innocent always suffer in war.”

            Irkand let that one wash over him. Callaina could be alive or she could be dead despite Bjarni’s belief. “A war you provoked, Elenwen. Say, have you heard from your friends in the Dark Brotherhood? A rash of accidents have befallen people the Thalmor would like conveniently removed from this world.”

            “The Thalmor don’t traffic with petty cutthroats,” Elenwen sniffed.

            “No, you use intermediaries, old girl.”

            Elenwen’s eyes narrowed. “Stop calling me ‘old girl’.”

            “I can’t call you ‘old bat’. The Emperor told me it’s undiplomatic.”

            “I am a well-bred mer in the prime of my life,” Elenwen said flatly. “Just because you’re getting old, Irkand, doesn’t mean we all share your state.”

            “But you will. You’ll get old, your flesh will sag, and then you will die. Your body will decay and your soul… Well, I can’t say where that will go. The Daedric Princes wouldn’t want any competition and the gods have surely abandoned you.” Irkand smiled benevolently at the pasty yellow womer. “As a servant of Arkay, I am comfortable with mortality. You and your Thalmor friends would save yourselves a lot of grief if you followed in my footsteps. Enjoy your day, old girl. Gods know I will.”

            He bowed elaborately and left the Blue Palace. That was an interesting exchange. Now to see if Elenwen would lash out.

…

“You know, that man really is a cunt. I think we should just kill him and put Dengeir on the Stag Throne again.”

            Astrid sighed. “The Kreathlings would make one of us Jarl, my dear, and do we really have time to divide our duty to the Hold and our duty to the Family? I don’t.”

            It was a long walk to Lakeview Manor at this time of day, so they turned off the road and went back to the old Sanctuary. The palatial estate was coming along nicely and the main hall was already liveable. Rustem, for all his issues, was quite a brilliant man. Astrid was relieved he was now Valerica’s problem, because she might have had to kill him and Cicero, which she wouldn’t like doing. But a Sanctuary could only have one leader and in Falkreath, that was Astrid.

            “I dunno why they don’t just make Nenya the Jarl,” Arnbjorn complained as he hung his long leather coat from a hook at the door. “She does all the work.”

            “Yes, an Altmer Jarl would go down _wonderfully_ with the Stormcloaks, however competent she may be,” Astrid pointed out.

            “Ulfric has his head up his arse.”

            “True. But he has his uses.” Astrid knelt to rekindle the fire. “Things are better now we have the Listener but not so settled that I want to throw away a regular source of income.”

            “That… may be a problem.” Valerica stepped from the shadows.

            Fur rippled across Arnbjorn’s skin as he half-shifted and then reverted to human form. “Don’t do that, Listener. You nearly ended up dinner.”

            “Apologies, Arnbjorn. I’m still getting used to some magic the Night Mother shared with me. One spell is the ability to translocate to sanctified Sanctuaries.” Valerica smiled apologetically, her golden eyes glowing in the firelight.

            “Can anyone do that?” Astrid asked curiously.

            “I’m not sure. It might be one of the perks of being Listener.” Valerica unclasped her cloak and folded it over her arm. “As I was saying before, we might have a problem. Someone in Windhelm performed the Black Sacrament with the target being your friend Sigdrifa.”

            “Well, that’s inconvenient,” Astrid groused. “Was it Ulfric?”

            “No, it was one Galmar Stone-Fist.”

            “Ulfric’s huscarl,” Arnbjorn rumbled. “What does the Night Mother say?”

            Valerica’s expression turned absent for a moment. “Every bargain made must be honoured. But it need not be immediate.”

            “Thank Sithis for that,” Astrid said fervently. “Is there a time limit?”

            “Unless certain conditions have been set by the petitioner, we have about a year and a day,” Valerica replied. “Galmar set no conditions beyond her death if Ulfric should die first.”

            “Okay.” Astrid took a deep breath. “Don’t tell Rustem. He’ll be on the first boat to Windhelm to carry it out personally.”

            “If he finds out, I’ll tell him that the contract on Titus Mede takes precedence at the moment. He says that we can’t expect the Emperor in Skyrim until about late summer.”

            “At least,” Astrid confirmed. “Autumn’s more likely.”

            “Well, we have plenty of contracts to occupy us in the meantime.” Valerica laid a sheaf of papers on the table. “Petty ones, I know. Five hundred septims each. But every drop fills the well and with our plans for expansion, we’ll need every drop we can get.”

            “Expansion?” This was news.

            “We’ve acquired land in the Pale and Hjaalmarch to build estates much like Lakeview,” Valerica said. “We’ve already hired one Jenassa and there’s a girl named Ingun Black-Briar who’s been told to prove herself worthy.”

            Before Astrid could reply, Valerica held her hand up. “I have no intention to break your Sanctuary up by fiat. I will _ask_ if one or two of your people would like to relocate to Windstad, but that choice is to be theirs.”

            “I really hate to say this but we might need to relocate Babette,” Arnbjorn said reluctantly. “People are startin’ to notice she ain’t ageing.”

            Astrid sighed and nodded. “I’ll put it to her. But I’m not forcing anyone to leave, Valerica.”

            “I understand. Rustem tells me Delvin promised to keep an eye out for anyone suitable in the Guild. Sometimes accidents happen and a Thief needs to relocate elsewhere for a year or so for things to die down.”

            “That happened with him,” Astrid confirmed. “I miss him.”

            “I don’t,” Arnbjorn growled as he picked up the sheaf of papers, going through them. “Night Mother’s withered dugs, Listener, you weren’t kiddin’ me when you said these were petty. Fucking churls getting other churls killed. I might as well go hunting bunny rabbits.”

            “Yes, my dear, but we’ll have enough money to finish Lakeview Manor,” Astrid pointed out, patting her husband on the shoulder.

            “Oooh, Helvard. Why are we killing the Jarl’s huscarl? I’d rather just eat Siddgeir, personally,” Arnbjorn said, pulling out one piece of paper from the stack.

            “I believe it’s a gambling debt of some kind. I simply relay the requests of the Night Mother’s petitioners.” Valerica tilted her head slightly. “Is Siddgeir that bad?”

            “The Kreathling royal family is pretty fucked up, even by our standards,” Astrid told her wryly. “Dengeir’s certain the Forsworn are haunting him, Siddgeir’s a pathetic little louse with delusions of grandeur, and Sigdrifa’s convinced she’s the Herald of the Second Coming of Talos.”

            “Don’t mince your words for my tender ears, Astrid. Tell me how you really feel,” Valerica said dryly.

            “I was born in Falkreath,” Arnbjorn growled. “Breaks my heart to see the Hold run into the ground, but if something happens to Siddgeir, the Kreathlings might just elect me or Astrid as Jarl. Thadgeir’s not a bad man, but he’s got the spine of a wet noodle.”

            “There would be worse Jarls than you or Astrid. I’d introduce you to my soon-to-be late husband Harkon, but…” Valerica sighed and a flash of pain crossed her fine features. “I’ll put off the Sigdrifa contract for as long as the Night Mother will allow. I know she’s your friend.”

            “She’s not my friend,” Astrid said bluntly. “We just did some training together and she pays me money to kill inconvenient people.”

            “Well, Sithis willing, we’ll be established enough her loss won’t affect your Sanctuary’s income,” Valerica said.

            Arnbjorn sighed. “I’m gonna be hunting a lot of bunny rabbits in the meantime.”


	8. Realisations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Time-skip! Trigger warnings for descriptions of violence and suicide.

 

It was spring but you wouldn’t think it from the permafrost this far north.

            Rustem disembarked from the ferry and made his leisurely way to the White Hall. Valerica had kept him running from one end of the coast to the other on petty jobs that paid fuck all. But as she said, every drop filled a well, and the Brotherhood needed every septim they could muster. That meant collecting bounties, robbing tombs and killing dumbfuck peasants who could barely afford a pot to piss in, let alone the Brotherhood’s fees.

            Skald the Elder was slouching on the Star Throne, barking orders to his hapless huscarl one minute and heaping shit on his servant the next. It was something of a surprise no one had hired the Brotherhood to eliminate him. Brina Merilis had her head on straight for all her Imperial allegiance.

            “Ah, my favourite Thane,” greeted the Jarl. “Been giving the Empire a headache?”

            “Whenever possible,” Rustem assured him cheerfully. “I just completed a plot involving three dead horkers and a horrible rendition of Ragnar the Red.”

            Skald sprayed mead as he laughed uproariously. “See, Bulfrek, that’s how you be funny.”

            “No, actually, I’m serious,” Rustem said with a grin. “There was an Argonian pirate who wanted me to douse the bonfire of the Solitude Lighthouse. I got the lightkeeper drunk, we sang Ragnar the Red horribly, and then when he was sleeping I put out the lighthouse. This Legion ship wrecked itself on the rocks and the Argonian sent me on for a reward. Sadly, his sister tried to kill me. Then I had to burn all their pirates alive using the fat of three dead horkers and a lantern.”

            “Bravo, Rustem, bravo.” Skald leaned back in his seat. “I received a letter from the Stormsword about you. It wasn’t very complimentary. It claimed you killed her uncle Balgeir under a parley flag.”

            “That’s true,” Rustem admitted easily, leaning against the wall. “Did you ever meet Balgeir?”

            “Once, which was more than enough.”

            “Well, he decided to tell me and a group of Alik’r warriors that half our homeland got signed away to the Thalmor because Titus Mede wanted to keep the Ruby Throne under his decrepit arse,” Rustem explained. “He added several uncomplimentary things about my father, who was the first to rebel against the White-Gold Concordat and be martyred for it, and my family in general. I might add I wasn’t the only one to attack him; the Alik’r Lord riding with us took exception to his attitude as well.”

            “Hmm. Dishonourable to attack under a parley flag but… Understandable. She said your family claimed to be descended from Martin Septim.”

            “That was my father, based on certain irregularities involving his father, who was the son of the Hero of Kvatch,” Rustem said with a sigh. “Given that Julius Martin and Father had a talent for sorcery, it was only human to put certain coincidences together for the sake of a crumbling Empire.”

            “Hmph.” Skald scratched his wattled jaw. “Your brother’s an assassin?”

            “Irkand is trained in certain covert arts. He’s also a Knight of Arkay. Who better to fight necromantic scum and vampires than someone who can strike in the shadows?”

            “Oh, I’m not judging,” Skald said with a wave of his hand. “I can’t say I approve of the Dark Brotherhood, but if they’re thinning the Imperial family like rumours claim, they’re doing Skyrim a service. Talos used all tools, you know.”

            “I was a Blade. I probably know better than most,” Rustem assured the Jarl with a smile. “As for the Stormsword, let me share a little fact: she’s not half as holy as she’d claim. There are questions on my side as to why Dengeir didn’t take the northern end of Pale Pass as was agreed when he and Father discussed certain plans. I’m not insulting Dengeir by any means, but the man is easily swayed, and he favours Sigdrifa.”

            “Hmm, yes. Korir made a few observations about how she’s tried to keep Winterhold reliant on Eastmarch the last time we met,” Skald agreed darkly. “Ulfric’s a fine man and his two boys – aye, even that Bjarni – walk in his footsteps as honourable men. Sigdrifa… The best that can be said is that she’s fighting to free Skyrim.”

            “Bjarni’s the mage, right?”

            “Yes. Damn near killed Dengeir when he used sorcery in front of him.” Skald chuckled cruelly. “I’d have given my left nut to see that. Bjarni and his people banished the Daedric nightmares that haunted us, you know. Can’t say as I’m happy he poached one of my fishing clans for Winterhold, but their youngest’s a mage, and it makes sense they’d move to unfished waters.”

            “I have to admit, if Dengeir dropped dead, I’d crack open a bottle of ale,” Rustem admitted with a big grin. “I’d shout Dawnstar drinks if it was Sigdrifa.”

            “See, Jod? This is a man of the world,” Skald said expansively to his huscarl. “Dawnstar’s lucky to have him as Thane.”

            “Yes, sir. He’s certainly something,” Jod said dryly.

            Rustem bowed slightly to the huscarl. “You should hear what the ladies say.”

            “What happened to that spear of yours?” Skald asked.

            “My crazy ex-wife has it. Sadly, my business of that and Dawnstar means I can’t take it back from her.” Rustem sighed heavily.

            “Ah, a pity. Speaking of business, we have another giant problem.”

            Rustem smiled thinly. “When and where?”

…

“Giant’s toes? I had to kill one today.”

            Rustem dropped the grisly digits on the table as Valerica was repotting some nightshade. The greenhouse wing of Heljarchen Hall had been completed and she had to admit it was worth the wait, if not as lovely as her old moon garden.

            “Thank you.” Valerica patted some soil around the nightshade roots. “Any word from Solitude?”

            “Yes. The Legion reinforcements for the Emperor’s visit won’t be coming. They wrecked off the coast of Solitude with a little help from me. When the pirates who hired me to do it tried to kill me, I came into some impressive amounts of treasure.” He dropped a literal sack of gold and gems on the table beside the giant toes. “There’s just no respect these days.”

            “You’re efficient,” Valerica conceded.

            “I have better news. Haafingar lost a good deal of its crops and lumber recently because of ‘fire from the sky’,” he continued, leaning his ugly Orcish sword against the wall. “Turned out Harkon managed to piss off some vampire hunters who got their hands on the Bow of Auri-El and Dawnbreaker. Some Psijic blew up the Castle and himself with it. There’s nothing but bare rock now.”

            Valerica grabbed the stone pot as not to collapse from the shock. “You’re certain?”

            “Certain as the Void is cold,” he said softly. “There’s even rumours of a vampire or two associated with the College. Your girl’s with them, right?”

            “Yes,” Valerica confirmed.

            “Well, sounds like things are going well. Maybe you should head up there and talk to her.” Rustem sighed. “My girl should have been at the College. I remember her being good with magic. She could cast Candlelight at the age of six.”

            Suddenly, Serana having her own life and making her own choices didn’t seem so bad. “Sigdrifa will answer for her deeds. Sooner than you might think.”

            Rustem’s eyebrow arched. “Oh?”

            “One Galmar Stone-Fist has invoked the Black Sacrament. Once Titus Mede is dead, we can see her dealt with.”

            “Don’t fuck up the biggest contract since the last time we killed an Emperor,” Rustem said softly. “I can wait, Valerica. I’ve had thirty years of cooling. Revenge can wait a little longer.”

            “Thank you,” she sighed. “I should have told you sooner, but I wanted to be certain you’d not rush off to fulfil the contract.”

            “There’s a lot of pots boiling. Mede’s just the biggest.” Rustem stretched slowly. “Sigdrifa’s maligning my name to Skald. Thank Sithis the man has no time for her.”

            “If she’s busy focusing on you, attention may be diverted from elsewhere,” Valerica said with a smile. “That being said, if she comes after you with intent to harm, you may kill her as you please.”

            “Tempting to provoke her in Windhelm, but revenge isn’t fun if you’re not around to celebrate,” Rustem said wryly. “One son’s the Arch-Mage of Winterhold and the other’s apparently the Champion of Meridia.”

            “Formidable,” Valerica agreed. “So, do you want to spend the next few days at home? I could take a couple contracts.”

            “Nah. I’ll get stir-crazy. There’s lots of ways I can keep things boiling.” Rustem grinned.

            “Don’t draw attention to us,” Valerica warned.

            “Trust me, I won’t.”

…

“We lost the Icerunner and its extra Legionnaires,” Maro said tightly. “So much for the extra security.”

            “Any idea of what caused the wreck?” Irkand asked, setting aside his report.

            “The lighthouse keeper got drunk on some excellent ale given to him by a Redguard. Then the lighthouse fire was doused.” Maro raked a hand through his untrimmed dark hair. “The same Redguard seen speaking to Jaree-Ra, who apparently led these pirates.”

            “Description?”

            “Medium-sized, wearing leather armour, carrying a big Orcish sword. Long fine braids.”

            Irkand began to feel a sense of dread. “Here’s where you tell me he had blue eyes.”

            “How…? Shit. Shit. Shit.” Maro was no fool. “The same Redguard who killed the Silver-Bloods and unleashed Madanach in Markarth. The same one seen hiring a ruthless mercenary in Whiterun around the same time a popular Bosmer hunter disappeared. He’s also been noted in Riften.”

            “Leaving chaos for the Empire in his wake,” Irkand said softly, grimly. “Maro, I greatly hate to say this, but I fear it might be Rustem.”

            “ _Rustem_? Your brother?”

            “The one and same. He’s always agitated against the Empire in Hammerfell. While he was pointed at the Thalmor, it was no great concern. Now he’s apparently in Skyrim. The only saving grace is he’s been giving the Stormcloaks some grief too.” Irkand placed his palms on the table to hide his trembling hands.

            “It makes a hideous amount of sense. No offence, Irkand, but I’ve always wondered what part your brother played in Arius’ rebellion,” Maro said with a sigh.

            “I thought him innocent. Perhaps he had nothing to do with the rebellion but grew angry at Father’s death. I know he went native with the Alik’r during the Great War.” Irkand pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead. “We need to detain him.”

            “He’s been operating out of Dawnstar, according to Brina Merilis,” Maro said softly. “Skald’s ineffectual but his commander was handpicked by Ulfric.”

            “And therefore we can’t arrest him openly.” Irkand sighed again. “He probably hired the Dark Brotherhood. It explains the long plan and the, ah, reduction of Imperial heirs.”

            “Arius had more support than people knew and I know we haven’t got half of them,” Maro agreed. “So what are we going to do?”

            Irkand stared into space. “We raze Falkreath Sanctuary to the ground and all the Brotherhood with it. The Dark Brotherhood are an affront to decency and Arkay. They’re too easy to hire. If we remove the weapon, we make it harder for people to harm the Empire.”

            Maro smiled. “I’ll lead the assault myself.”


	9. Fire and the Void

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and mentions of torture and child soldiers.

 

“Well, there it is,” reported the Quaestor, a solid Nord with plain features who led the Legion squad assigned to assist Maro in the elimination of the Dark Brotherhood. “The Black Door.”

            “How do we get inside?” asked one of the Legionnaires. “Don’t they have a password?”

            “Yes. But that’s why I requested a battlemage with some skill at Alteration.” Maro nodded at Stalks-the-Foe, a one-eyed battle-scarred veteran of five wars in as many decades. The dark-scaled beastman gave a lipless smile and placed his hands on one side of the door where they could just see hinges. The stone crumbled like dirt under his magic and then everyone scrambled back as the Black Door fell forward, except for the Quaestor who caught the enchanted wood and laid it down quietly. No wonder he was Rikke’s personal aide with that kind of quick thinking.

            “Stealth,” Maro hissed. Everyone dropped into a crouch and snuck into the unhallowed ruins.

            An acrid scent lingered in the air as they passed a private bedroom and a table with a map of Skyrim on it, then descended the stairs into the main cavern, which would have been beautiful with its waterfall if not the noxious mushrooms growing everywhere and the stained-glass window overlooking everything. “Spread out,” Maro hissed sharply and the soldiers obeyed.

            One by one, they searched the rooms and found nothing. The furniture was sturdy and much-used, but there was a sense of emptiness. The small garden remained untended, the drawers were empty, and the hearth cold.

            It wasn’t until they reached what Maro supposed to be the chapel that they found someone. An old man, Nibenese by the height, who was praying at the stained-glass window of the skull that represented Sithis. “Identify yourself,” Maro demanded, rising to his feet. One old man, probably a retired assassin. What harm could he be?

            “I’m Festus Krex. Used to be a Destruction Master for the Synod until I discovered turning people inside out was more interesting and paid better,” the old man said calmly. “I’m a little surprised it took you so long to come looking for us.”

            “Where’s the rest of your unholy fellowship?” Maro asked.

            “Away from the likes of you.” Krex smiled thinly. “I decided to come and pray in the old chapel one last time.”

            “Unwise of you,” Stalks observed. “Tell us where your friends are or we’ll have the answers out of you with pain.”  
            “Oh, torture. How pedestrian of you,” Krex said amusedly. “You children never learn.”

            Before Maro could respond, the old man was surrounded by a cloak that switched between frost, fire and lightning. “Do you like it?” Krex asked as he stood up slowly. “A little trick I figured out a few years ago.”

            One of the Nord Legionnaires charged at the mage, only to be turned into a pile of ash at a single gesture. Maro snarled and lifted his blade, only to find the sword intolerably hot. He dropped the weapon as the stink of burned flesh filled the air.

            Krex lifted his hands as he slowly turned and then brought them down sharply against the stone floor. The air exploded into shrieking frosty winds, most of the non-Nord Legionnaires freezing solid in heartbeats. Maro had some anti-magic defences enchanted into his armour, so he pushed through the cold, accompanied by the Quaestor. Even the Nord soldiers were affected by these winds and their veins ran with ice.

            They reached Krex by the time the winds died down. The Quaestor circled the mage before he could cast another spell and grabbed his neck, jerking hard. The old man kicked once and was still.

            “Look for paperwork,” ordered Maro as he fumbled for a healing potion. He was badly burned from the fire and the frost. “They had to leave something.”

            The Quaestor nodded and exited the chapel. Moments later, Maro heard him scream.

            He grabbed a gladius in his good hand and bolted out into the main cavern, where a black-furred beast from nightmares was eliminating the reinforcements. The Quaestor grabbed his wounded side and went for the door, only to fall with a series of serrated stars in his chest.

            “Did you think we didn’t anticipate this?”

            Rustem Aurelius climbed down the stairs into the cavern, drawing that big ugly Orcish sword slung across his back. He was accompanied by a wiry Dunmer woman in chitin armour, her face veiled with scarlet rags, and a… jester. On seeing the jester, Maro was certain he’d gone mad.

            It wasn’t much a battle between the werewolf and the Legionnaires, not when Rustem tossed a few jars that shattered and released more of that acrid scent. “Fall back,” the Redguard ordered softly. “We’ll give Krex the pyre and escort he deserves.”

            Maro staggered halfway across the room as the werewolf ran for the stairs, leaving the Dunmer woman behind. She gestured – and the world ignited.

            The best thing that could be said for the commander’s end was that he joined his son in the Void.

…

“Krex went out how he wanted. In a big explosion with his enemies screaming about him.”

            They were at Lakeview Manor after Jenassa and Arnbjorn silenced the last of the Penitus Oculatus. Rustem was bandaging Jenassa’s light burns with a soothing salve; Dunmer were resistant to fire, not immune to it, and the blast had been bigger than they realised. She didn’t slap him, which was nice to know, when his knuckles grazed her unburned skin. Maybe the attraction was mutual.

            “It still doesn’t mean he won’t be missed,” Astrid told her husband with a sigh.

            “True. Finding a mage to replace him will be hard.”

            “Maro wasn’t on Motierre’s list but I doubt he’ll be crying when he finds out about the good commander’s death,” Rustem observed. “Furthermore, news of this won’t reach Titus until he’s in Wayrest at least. It’ll be too late to turn back, not with the unrest Skyrim’s in at the moment.”

            “Does the Empire have anyone to replace Maro?” Valerica asked from her corner.

            “There’s probably some Penitus Oculatus folk at Dragon Bridge. The big question is whether they can convince my dear brother Irkand whether to assist them or not,” Rustem answered with a sigh. “Believe me when I say that Irkand’s probably the best human assassin in the Empire. When other kids were learning to walk, he was learning the art of murder at the hands of masters who had their skills passed down from the years of the Dragonguard.”

            “We better assume he will,” Astrid said grimly. “I know he’s your brother-“

            “But he was the only one of our family to be uncrucified and alive by the end of the Bruma Purge,” Rustem said flatly. “I have questions about that.”

            “Is there _anyone_ in your family who hasn’t murdered, betrayed or lied?” Gabriella asked acidly.

            “My ex-wife and kids back in Hammerfell. The daughter I lost in Cyrodiil,” he replied.

            “We will assume the worst. We’ve managed to secure the land in Windstad. Jarl Idgrod made some demands of us in return,” Valerica announced. “She knows who and what I am. In return for a Sanctuary in Hjaalmarch, she asks we protect her Hold from any and all supernatural dangers.”

            “Wait. We’re the fucking Hold guard now?” Arnbjorn rumbled.

            Valerica smiled thinly at the werewolf. “Hjaalmarch remembers its old blood. Sithis was worshipped there once and the Ravencrones are descended from the Matriarchs of Hircine. When one became old, they would pray to the old gods, make a sacrifice and become a Hagraven. Idgrod has allegiance to the Empire but she also has no illusions about the need for change.”

            “Huh. Creepy bog town full of creepy bog people,” Rustem said dryly.

            “Yes. It’s my home and I’ll be moving myself, the Mother and Cicero to Windstad when it’s built.” Valerica wrinkled her nose at him. “Babette, Rustem and Jenassa will be assigned to the Heljarchen Sanctuary. Astrid, everyone else remains here at Lakeview.”

            Then the Listener paused. The Night Mother was putting in her two septims judging by the expression. “Ah. Apparently a new Sanctuary will need to be opened soon in the Rift. Ingun Black-Briar poisoned her father-in-law with deathbell so it appeared his heart gave out. She just performed the Black Sacrament to let us know.”

            “Maven’s not getting a discount,” Rustem grumbled.

            Astrid chuckled low and long. “I was wondering how soon she’d kill Vulwulf or her mother. Both weren’t happy about her interest in alchemy.”

            Gabriella pursed her lips. “Astrid, I think it might be best if I relocate to the Rift. I have family there.”

            The Speaker for Falkreath glanced in her direction. “I’ve lost Krex and Babette needs to move. Now you want to leave me?”

            “I’m worried with Ulfric gaining power in the Old Holds. He uses my people as a scapegoat.” Gabriella smiled at Astrid gently. “I’m not abandoning you. I’m just moving to the next Hold.”

            “If we can’t cover all of Skyrim with four Sanctuaries, we don’t deserve to call ourselves assassins,” Rustem said as Astrid sighed. “We’ve got all of spring and most of summer to prepare ourselves for Mede’s arrival. Take every contract you can, be it through the Sacrament or by word of mouth or even bounties or tomb raiding. Build up your network of spies and contacts. Sabotage the Legion wherever possible.”

            He stared into space. “We will shake Skyrim… Tamriel… to the very roots of the earth. So we better make it all count.”


	10. To Kill an Emperor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Another time-skip. Cicero is literally the epitome of the ‘too kinky to torture’ trope.

 

The spring and summer passed with no overt sign of Brotherhood activity but rumours of a resurgence in unexplained deaths. Irkand wasn’t happy to be kept from his vocation of hunting the enemies of Arkay, but until a new commander for the Penitus Oculatus arrived with the Emperor, he was the only man in Skyrim with the experience to maintain security. Legate Primus Rikke cooperated, as did her new aide Hadvar, son of the previous one Harnbjorn. They locked down Solitude from dusk to dawn with a soldier at every block to question suspicious characters. A few people were given pass cards that described them down to the whiskers on their chins. Every lantern was kept lit, and while the smell of horker fat was unpleasant, it would be nothing compared to the chaos unleashed by the Emperor’s death.

            It was late summer when the body double arrived. Noctis Motierre was one of Titus Mede’s more obnoxious cousins, a pompous prick whose resemblance to the Emperor was his one virtue. As bait, he was perfect, because there’d be no great outcry if he died. Even his wife would quietly celebrate.

            It was during the first meeting with Noctis that Irkand discovered Hadvar had a sly sense of humour. A quirk of his accent allowed him to say ‘Noctis’ remarkably like ‘Noxious’ and the training of a Legionnaire gave him the ability to do so deadpan. Watching Noctis redden and be unable to do anything was some small consolation for enduring the man’s company.

            “The resemblance is remarkable,” Rikke observed as they watched Noctis greet High King Istlod and Prince Torygg. Now, for political reasons, the Nord royal family had been let in on the deception and Istlod played his part beautifully. Torygg was distracted by his new wife Elisif, daughter of the Count of Evermore, to give anything away. She really was quite a beautiful girl, one who was already being called ‘the Fair’ by most of Haafingar.

            “It’ll fool most of the Jarls, and if it can fool them, the Dark Brotherhood will be deceived long enough to flush them out,” Irkand replied with a sigh. “I wish I’d anticipated them preparing for an attack on their Sanctuary. Maro’s loss was a blow to us all.”

            “I’ve made a study of your brother’s tactics in Hammerfell after they seceded from the Empire,” Rikke said carefully. “Astrid… Well, she’s no tactical genius, but she’s smart enough to listen to one. Sacrificing a squad to deceive a larger force was one of his techniques. The other was a bold thrust at the leadership with a specialised strike force. He often used the two in tandem.”

            “You’re familiar with Astrid?” Irkand asked with an arched eyebrow.

            “She, myself and Sigdrifa were trainee Shieldmaidens together at Yngvild,” the Legate replied. “She got kicked out for fooling around with a local boy. Sigdrifa took vows, but was married to Rustem shortly after. I’m the only one who still keeps hers.”

            “For which we’re all grateful,” Irkand said. “As for my brother… This is more subtle than I expected. He was always a direct and forthright young man.”

            “Wiping out the Imperial family is pretty direct,” Rikke said dryly.

            “True enough.” Irkand sighed. “Do you know where he is by any chance?”

            “Dawnstar. And since we can’t prove anything, he has diplomatic immunity in all nine Holds because he’s a Thane,” Rikke responded with a sigh. “It’s like Ulfric and Sigdrifa. We know they’re planning to rebel, but while they simply consolidate power in the Old Holds, we can do nothing. They can even walk in and out of Solitude until they formally commit an act of treason.”

            “Your laws are ridiculous,” Irkand complained.

            Hadvar climbed up to the balcony where they were observing the court. “Sir, Legate, the Gourmet’s here.”

            “Wait, what?” Irkand raised his eyebrow at the muscular Nord.

            “Maro didn’t tell you? He hired the Gourmet and brought him to Skyrim discreetly to cook for the Emperor,” Rikke said.

            “How do you know it’s the Gourmet?” Irkand asked, both eyebrows now raised.

            “He’s wearing a cook hat, talking in a Breton accent and has the pass naming him as the Gourmet,” Hadvar replied.

            “Let him in… but watch him closely.” That was Rikke.

            “Yes, Legate.” Hadvar saluted crisply and left.

            “I should get him to sign my copy of _Uncommon Taste_ ,” Irkand said dryly.

            “If it’s the real deal, you can do so after dinner.” Rikke nodded down to Istlod. “If we don’t invite the High King of Skyrim to dine with the Emperor, he’s going to be offended.”

            Irkand sighed. “Arkay save me from the egos of provincial kings.”

…

Cicero sorely missed his jester’s hat. How could people know him for the Fool of Hearts if he didn’t wear his motley? But the Listener and his Brother Rustem had explained the very great joke of poisoning the Emperor while pretending to be the Gourmet. Alas, poor Gourmet was dead and stuffed into a cask of indifferent wine in the Pale. Maybe a month or two of soaking would improve it.

            Brothers and Sisters had been brought in from all over Skyrim to cover every eventuality. Lovely Ingun Black-Briar was one of Princess Elisif’s lady guests and would provide distraction by shrieking very loudly when the Emperor was dead. Cicero had heard that shriek already. It could give Mehrunes Dagon a headache. Sapphire had already infiltrated the city and set up a line of sight through one of the windows of the Emperor’s Tower. Her heavy crossbow would execute the Emperor if Cicero failed or forestall pursuit by killing Penitus Oculatus agents. Astrid and Jenassa were in the city too, with grappling hooks to climb up to the bridge through which Cicero would escape, providing archery support. Arnbjorn and Rustem waited outside with a boat. The former would go werewolf to annihilate any pursuers. Everyone else was gathered at Windstad to protect the Listener and the Night Mother.

            Babette had taught him how to cook properly – or at least be able to pretend to be the Gourmet. Everyone knew that High Rock chefs were pretentious, so Cicero faked the accent, put on the hat and demanded satisfaction from anyone who questioned him. If this was how chefs got to act, it was almost as fun as being a jester.

            He throttled his giggling as he followed the burly Legionnaire through the Emperor’s Tower to the kitchen. A small Nibenese woman was already there, preparing ingredients for the Potage le Manifique, and Cicero answered her excited questions as best he could. He even signed her copy of _Uncommon Taste._ Cicero was a better Gourmet than the Gourmet himself. The Orc had been very rude to poor Cicero.

            A sweet roll, gold septim and the jarrin root flavoured the Potage le Manifique. Cicero told the Niben-woman not to taste it after the root was added. He didn’t want to kill innocent people. He also told her he would take the dish up himself because the Emperor wanted the Gourmet serving him. Not that there was anything wrong with dear sweet Gianna, but she should run down to the Solitude markets to get snowberries for dessert. Nords liked their snowberry tarts.

            He climbed the stairs to the dining room, where a few Penitus Oculatus guarded a balding man in lavish velvet robes emblazoned with red diamonds, a portly auburn-haired Nord wearing an ornate crown, and a few other nobles. Ooh, High King Istlod was here. Cicero always wanted to perform for a royal audience.

            “The Potage le Manifique for you, mighty Emperor of Emperors,” Cicero oozed, dishing up the casserole into various bowls. “Humble C… Gourmet is honoured to cook for you.”

            “Finally,” the Emperor snapped. “We’ve been waiting for hours.”

            “Good food isn’t prepared in a few minutes,” Istlod pointed out.

            “It doesn’t take hours either,” the Emperor complained. He brought a spoonful to his mouth even though Cicero was still serving. What a rude man. No matter the Nords were revolting, and not just in hygiene or dress. “Well, it’s edible… Wait, I…”

            He fell face down into the soup and Cicero decided now was a good time to exit the room as Ingun started that shrill shriek. The window shattered as Sapphire’s crossbow bolt took Istlod in the chest, for he’d risen to assist the Emperor. Oops.

            He was halfway across the bridge when someone flung a bola at him, the stone-weighted rope tangling around his legs. Arrows rained down from the towers as Penitus Oculatus agents swarmed the bridge and Astrid and Jenassa fired at them, but Cicero only had eyes for the stocky Redguard with the beaky nose who prowled towards him. This had to be Rustem’s brother Irkand, a peerless assassin lost to Arkay because of his peculiar morality.

            Cicero remained still as Irkand squatted beside him, a gold-hilted katana held lightly in his hand. “I will spare you the tortures of the Penitus Oculatus if you tell me where Rustem and your brethren can be found,” he said in a low oiled-silk voice. What a waste of a wonderful, wonderful man to be a killer for Arkay! “You killed a body double today. And the High King of Skyrim."

            “Cicero will not betray his brother,” the Fool told him. “Do your worst. Cicero likes it when they’re rough.”

            “His… You’re telling me he’s with the Brotherhood?” Irkand blurted, completely shocked.

            “Well, he’s certainly not with the Companions,” Cicero said dryly.

            “No, he isn’t. That would be a bit too honourable.” Irkand raised his katana. “Tell me where Rustem is or I will send you to the Void in pieces.”

            “Cicero will rest in pieces in the Void!” the jester laughed.

            Irkand raised his weapon higher… and got bowled over by Arnbjorn, who picked up Cicero and turned around, growling in complaint all the way.

            They made the boat. “Well?” Rustem asked.

            “It was a body double,” Cicero said sulkily. “Sapphire did kill Istlod though.”

            “Well, that wasn’t in the plan. Still…” Rustem pushed the rowboat away from the shore.

            They abandoned it near the swamps of Hjaalmarch and slogged through the icy bogs until they reached Windstad. Arnbjorn dumped the still-bound Cicero in front of the fire and went to the front room to await his Astrid.

            “Irkand was smarter than I realised,” Rustem reported grimly to Valerica. “I should have realised when I didn’t see the Katariah in the harbour.”

            “Have the others escaped?” the Listener asked, kneeling by Cicero to help unwind the bola.

            “We won’t know for a day or so. We better prepare for the worst.”

            “Irkand knows you are with the Brotherhood now,” Cicero said softly. “He thought you hired us to kill the Emperor.”

            Rustem sighed. “It was bound to happen.”

            Cicero giggled. “You said bound.”

            By dawn, everyone else arrived. Valerica’s invisibility potions were powerful and everyone wore Muffle-enchanted jewellery. “All that planning gone to waste!” groused Sapphire.

            “Not entirely,” said Astrid. “Sigdrifa’s contract on Istlod was filled.”

            “Is there anyone in Skyrim she doesn’t have a contract on?” Rustem asked flatly.

            “Bjarni, Egil and my pet spider,” Babette said dryly.

            “Give her a few months and she’d add them,” Arnbjorn observed, hugging his wife. “So, the Empire knows we’re trying to kill its Emperor. What do we do now?”

            “Go underground until the Katariah arrives,” Rustem said. “Sapphire, would the Guild play lookout for us? I’ll give them twenty-five percent of the fee.”

            “Delvin or Vex will,” the cross-Guild woman replied. “Brynjolf’s a little busy courting Korli and Karliah won’t intervene in Brotherhood business.”

            “Does Korli still hate me?” Rustem asked.

            “I don’t know. She’s busy with Goldenglow Estate these days. She’s glowing though.”

            Ingun laughed softly. “She’s pregnant. Brynjolf’s going to take her to Whiterun so they can run into her ex-husband.”

            Sapphire laughed. “Oh, that’s delicious!”

            It took Cicero a few moments to remember Korli was Rustem’s daughter, the one he thought dead, and that she wasn’t happy with him over trying to kill the Emperor. “Cicero could kill the offending ex-husband as a gift?” he suggested.

            “No. Korli’s… I don’t know how to describe her. She’s a perfect fit for the Guild, but she’s basically a good person.” Ingun sighed and shook her head at such naivety.

            “Get Delvin to do it. He’s going to get most of our fee anyway so we can finish our houses.” Rustem turned towards the fire, presenting his back to everyone. “Go underground and fulfil no contracts. Irkand won’t be fooled, but he’ll be preparing for a strike at any time. That state of awareness exhausts a man after a few days. When the Katariah arrives… We’ll strike then. I don’t want to kill him if I can help it.”

            “He might not hold back for you,” Valerica pointed out.

            “That’s his choice.”

            “Be wary, Rustem.” That was Jenassa. “He wields Goldbrand.”

            The Redguard turned around. “Titus Mede give it to him for being a good dog, huh?”

            “Boethiah would not permit it. I fought in the Great War at the Battle of the Red Ring. I remember Bosmeri suicide commandoes attacking and killing most of the Penitus Oculatus. Yet the Emperor strode forward and instead of taking command, he led a small strike team to take the gates and execute Naarifin.”

            “Irkand.” Rustem’s expression darkened. “And Titus Mede still… Well, I’m going to take Goldbrand from my brother and make Titus Mede swallow every fucking inch.”

            Cicero shivered. The Listener was terrible and wonderful, but it was Rustem who was the Void made flesh. Sithis have mercy for the Redguard would have none.


	11. My Brother, My Enemy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. The death of Titus Mede is the climax of the Brotherhood storyline in game, but it isn’t so here. Trigger warning for corpse desecration.

 

It was a bright day in early autumn when the Katariah sailed into Solitude’s harbour and anchored off the docks. Titus Mede, wearing plain brown robes and a fox-skin cloak, was ferried ashore by an anonymous man in Legion armour. He was brought into Solitude via a secret route and the very first thing he did was meet with the soon-to-be High King Torygg to express his condolences over Istlod’s brutal murder.

            The second thing he did was meet with a grim-faced Redguard in studded black leathers who wore an amulet of Arkay around his neck. Irkand, always self-confident and stoic, had aged about ten years in the past few months – looking his true fifty-something years instead of in his early forties. His hair was more steel than iron and deep lines cut grooves into his olive-bronze features. Titus sighed and accepted the Redguard’s salute. No one expected Rustem Aurelius to be capable of such long-range planning.

            “I always knew there’d be a price to pay for the death of your father,” Titus said heavily. “The Madgoddess Herself told me so shortly after the Bruma Purge. You don’t need to be part of this, Irkand. Return to your duties as a Knight of Arkay.”

            Irkand’s mouth turned downwards at the mention of the Madgoddess. It was common belief that the half-Orc brawler Aurelia Northstar mantled at least part of Sheogorath and became the Madgoddess, patron of berserkers and insane devotion to a cause. Titus could vouch for the truth of it, which was so much more than people realised. Mortals weren’t meant to look Daedric Princes in the face. It was only the understanding that Arius truly hadn’t given him a choice that left Titus alive at the end of the interview.

            “If it was just a clean assassination, I’d obey,” Irkand replied. “But any number of people have died as collateral damage, not the least High King Istlod. Young Gaius was framed, Maro died horribly, and I’m guessing they murdered the Gourmet too. Arkay commands me to stand against unnatural death. Well, the Brotherhood have brought about a lot of it.”

            “Even though your own brother is part of it?”

            “I thought Rustem innocent of Father’s rebellion. Now, I can’t say.” Irkand sighed heavily. “I did receive news that Callaina survived. She’s down in the Rift raising goats and honey, according to my source.”

            “That was a regret of mine, that an innocent child had died because of Arius’ actions,” Titus replied. “Does she have anything to do with her mother’s family?”

            “I doubt it. Sigdrifa abandoned her. Her brother Bjarni was quite livid when he found out.” Irkand sighed again. “We need to defuse tension in Skyrim, Titus. The Stormcloaks have some legitimate complaints about Imperial governance here. Whoever you post as provincial governor will need to be diplomatic. May I suggest Viscount Carvain? He’s travelled here before, so he knows the culture.”

            “I’ll write a declaration declaring her Immunitas, Irkand. As for the rest of it, that’s in the Elder Council’s hands.” A thought occurred to Titus and he nodded. “Come with me to the Katariah. I will write out the appropriate decrees and give them to you with the Imperial Seal. Then you’re to leave for Cyrodiil, effective immediately. Get them into Akaviria’s hands.”

            “You’re choosing her as heir?”

            “I have no choice. Armand’s too deeply enthralled by the Thalmor.” Titus’ smile was chilly. “Take care of him if he was the one who paid for the assassination?”

            “Titus…”

            “There’s no stopping this, Irkand. I know you would kill your own brother for the Empire. I want to keep that sin, of all the ones you’ve committed for me, out of your hands.” Titus smiled wearily at one of the few he could count on. “Return to the Knights of Arkay once Akaviria is safe. She’s a stubborn girl but she’ll make for a fine Empress.”

            “As you command.” Irkand bowed precisely. “I hope I don’t fail as I have failed in other tasks.”

            “You won’t. Also, when you leave the Katariah, give the sailors shore leave. Let us reduce the collateral damage.”

…

“I smell a trap,” Jenassa whispered harshly as twenty or so sailors rowed ashore to the Solitude docks. “Why has the Katariah been emptied?”

            “Mede knows what’s coming,” Arnbjorn rumbled. “He’s trying to minimise the casualties.”

            “Works for me,” Rustem said cheerfully.

            “Maybe not,” Arnbjorn growled. “Your brother’s among them. You gonna get Goldbrand or what?”

            Rustem sighed and rose to his feet. “Get on that boat and paint it red. Try to keep Titus Mede alive.”

            He strolled down to the docks with the walk of a seaman. Redguard sailors were common here and Rustem had made sure to dress the part. He even made sure to swap the Orcish sword for a scimitar for greater verisimilitude. Irkand was looking over at the Katariah, tension in the line of his back, but Rustem decided against a surprise attack. There were words to be had.

            “Father acted before I could warn him. You defected to Hammerfell. For many years, Callaina was believed dead.” Of course Irkand would hear him coming. “If the Empire falls, the Thalmor win.”

            “The Emperor sold out Hammerfell to keep his arse on the Ruby Throne,” Rustem said. “Now he’s paying the price for that.”

            “Cicero told me you were part of the Brotherhood. Was that recent?” Irkand turned. He’d aged well.

            “Been part of it since the late 180s. There were Thalmor agents embedded in Hammerfell that needed to be removed. If it consolidated power for my new in-laws, so much the better.” Rustem nodded to the sheathed katana at Irkand’s waist. “Bit hypocritical of an Arkay worshipper to use a Daedric weapon.”

            “Arkay is a pragmatist. You’re mistaking me for a Vigilant of Stendarr.” Irkand remained in his deceptively relaxed pose. “You don’t need to kill Mede, Rustem.”

            “Yes, I do. Once the Black Sacrament is made and the bargain struck, there’s no turning back.” Rustem smiled thinly. “If it’s any consolation, Sigdrifa’s got a contract on her I’ll be personally collecting. Bitch has my naginata.”

            “Ulfric?” Irkand asked, eyebrow raising.

            “No, Galmar. Sigdrifa’s got a contract on Ulfric already. Honestly, half the nobility of this damn country has a contract on the other half.” Rustem grinned. “It’s almost as exciting as Hammerfell politics.”

            “Since you’re being so forthcoming, I don’t suppose you’ll tell me who put the hit out on Mede?”

            “No. Bastard owes us a lot of money.” Rustem placed his hand on his scimitar. “Are you going to hand over Goldbrand or will I have to take it? I’ll be killing Mede with it.”

            Irkand drew the katana and settled into the appropriate stance. “Come and take it.”

            Before the Great War, the Blades used to speculate on who would win in a fight between the two Aurelius brothers. Irkand was acknowledged as the finest assassin and dual-wielder produced in the past century while Rustem was agreed to be a supreme athlete and warrior. Now they were both a bit past their prime, fighting for the life of one man the world wouldn’t miss very much.

            It swiftly became apparent that for all his stealth and agility, Irkand didn’t have the stamina to match Rustem. A feint, a downward slash, and the katana-wielding hand separated from its wrist. “Walk away,” Rustem said softly. “I don’t want to kill you.”

            Irkand’s other hand glowed golden as he healed the stump. “Arkay damn you for the chaos you’ll unleash.”

            “I’m already damned, my brother. Sithis just gives us some excellent benefits.”

            “Callaina’s alive. I won’t tell you where she is though.”

            “I know where she is. Believe me, she had some things to say about her abandonment.” Rustem smiled sadly. “She wants nothing to do with us. Esbern always said she was the smartest one in the family.”

            “If I ever cross paths with you again, I will kill you.” Irkand straightened up. “I hope whatever coin you’re being paid will be worth the misery you’ve caused.”

            Rustem watched him walk away with a sense of regret. Then he shook his head and went for the boat after collecting Goldbrand. Time to have a chat with Titus Mede.

…

“No man, whatever his sins, deserved such an end.”

            Titus Mede was dead, forced into a kneeling position and pinned there by the shining length of Goldbrand shoved through his mouth. Rikke had seen some scenes of carnage in her day but this was up there with anything the Thalmor ever produced. Two of the Penitus Oculatus agents had left to vomit. Only she and Irkand, now one-handed, remained in the state room.

            “He knew it was coming,” the Redguard said softly. “That’s why he got the civilian sailors off the boat and gave me the seal.”

            “You did your best,” Rikke assured him hollowly. “The question is… What are we going to do now?”

            “I’m going to assure the survival of Akaviria. You need to assure the survival of Skyrim as part of the Empire.” Irkand sighed heavily. “Sigdrifa’s got a contract on Ulfric and Galmar, whoever he is, has a contract on her.”

            “That’s something. Ulfric’s competent but Sigdrifa’s the brains and driving force of the rebellion.” Rikke allowed herself a grim inward smile. “I know Galmar. Sigdrifa’s contract won’t trigger unless something threatens Ulfric. Leave it to me.”

            Irkand nodded. “I will. Talos strengthen your arm, Shieldmaiden.”

            “And yours… Blade.”


	12. Interlude: The Moot of 198E

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Moar time-skips! Trigger warning for discussion of child abandonment.

 

The 198th Year of the Fourth Era began quietly enough after the assassination of Emperor Titus Mede II in Solitude’s harbour. After the initial shock, Skyrim settled down to focus on the task of preparing for an annual enemy greater than any foe on the battlefield – winter. It was a subdued season, noble and common alike huddling by the fire and sharing stories of old battles and future glories. Never more so than in Solitude, where High King Torygg presided over a fractious Moot with his dainty red-haired queen beside him. They were young, Torygg barely twenty-three and Elisif a few months past nineteen, and only the corrupt Jarl Siddgeir approaching them in age.

            Torygg had been voted in because the Old Holds abstained from the vote. Balgruuf, Idgrod, Igmund and Siddgeir voted for him unanimously while Ulfric lounged in his chair and glowered darkly at the boy-king. While the High Kings in Solitude generally favoured the Empire, Torygg had been raised in Cyrodiil alongside Siddgeir as hostages after the signing of the White-Gold Concordat. Only Elisif was more foreign, as she was born in High Rock to a mother with ties to the Western Reacher clans. They were clad in silks and velvets compared to the fine linen, wool plush and furs of all the other Jarls but Balgruuf, and his indigo silk robes were several years old. Elisif wore several pieces of ornate jewellery. It wasn’t making for a good impression.

            Sigdrifa shifted on her feet to ease the ache of standing for so long. Only Jarls were permitted seats at the Moot and while her carved totemic armour was well-padded, it wasn’t comfortable to wear for several hours at a time. It was strange to look in the mirror and see herself with fine lines and silver hairs. Even with two grown sons, she still felt like the girl who walked away from Bruma much wiser than before.

            The Jarls were arranged in a circle, each accompanied by two others – generally a huscarl and a family member or Steward. Most of the faces were familiar but Laila’s Bosmer Steward Anuriel had been replaced by a darkly beautiful woman of indeterminate ancestry whose belly was swelling underneath her fine goat’s wool gown. Around them, the Circle of the Companions stood guard, and Kodlak Whitemane himself stood behind the High King. A few mages had come from the College of Winterhold and Bjarni was now petitioning the Moot concerning ancient rights for the wizards he’d like to see reinstated.

            It aggravated Sigdrifa to admit it, but her eldest had grown tall and strong, possessed of his father’s charisma and his own likeable charm. That Dunmer wench of his was present and when Sigdrifa accidentally met her eyes, the scarlet orbs blazed with contempt. She didn’t dare do anything about Brelyna, though. The head of the last sellsword meant to deal with her had been returned with the Telvanni crest carved into his forehead. A Redoran custom, but one warning that if another was sent, the Morag Tong would be called in. Astrid made it abundantly clear that she wasn’t getting into a fight with the rival assassins for Sigdrifa’s sake.

            “We all know that the current state of peace in Skyrim is tenuous,” Bjarni finished, his baritone carrying easily across the entire great hall. “Jarls have disagreements all the time and sometimes that involves raiding. I ask not for special consideration but for the College of Winterhold to be recognised as a politically neutral organisation like Bards College or the Companions of Jorrvaskr, so that mage need not fight mage, may be ransomed fairly if captured, and be subject to limited diplomatic immunity in all the Holds.”

            “That is a fair asking,” Torygg said. “Kodlak, you are Harbinger of the Companions, and you Vingalmo are the dean of the Bards College. What say you to the College being counted as equals to you?”

            “I see no problem with it. Once, our rune-binders, clever crafters and wonder-smiths were revered for their skills. At least three Harbingers, including Ilathi the Clever, Jorik Grey-Mane and Hana Gudrunsdottir, practiced the Clever Craft extensively. So long as the College says out of politics, let them be considered our equals.” Kodlak stepped back behind Torygg.

            “Like the Companions, Harbinger, I accept that my people have their own honour and politics,” Bjarni said quietly. “But while they are associated with the College, they can’t take sides. They’ll have to formally disenroll to work for a Jarl as anything other than a recognised court wizard, and said wizard will have to accept whoever sits in the Jarl’s throne or resign their position.”

            “You’re wasted at the College,” Vingalmo said in his rough carrying tenor. “You should become a bard.”

            “Are you kidding me?” one of the mages called out from the balcony. “We only made him Arch-Mage so we could keep him under adult supervision! Believe me, your bards don’t need another rowdy among them!”

            “I resemble that remark,” Bjarni said with a grin as several people laughed, including Torygg and Elisif.

            “Yes, well, we don’t need to mix magic into their mischief,” Vingalmo agreed with a smile. “I think it’s about time we give the mages their due. We welcome their healers, we welcome their enchanting, but we spit on them as they walk past us in the street. If Bjarni can regulate his people, I’m for it.”

            “My people know there are lines I don’t allow to be crossed,” Bjarni said, a flash of grimness crossing his features. “If they cross them, they have a discussion with myself or the Destruction Master. Depending how far or how often they’ve crossed those lines, they may die for it.”

            “Why couldn’t he show so much steel for the cause?” Sigdrifa muttered to Ulfric.

            “Because we didn’t allow him to do as he pleased,” her husband responded. “Now shut up. I want to see how the vote goes.”

            Buoyed by Kodlak and Vingalmo’s approval, the Imperial Holds and Korir voted aye immediately, while Laila followed suit after a quiet word from her new Steward. Skald voted no and Ulfric abstained.

            Galmar grunted. “Bjarni’s taken himself out of the fight. Clever of the boy.”

            “I want to know who Laila’s new Steward is,” Ulfric said quietly. “She looks familiar, but I can’t place her.”

            Bjarni bowed as Torygg proclaimed the College of Winterhold to join the Companions, Bards College and Temples in being immune from the political landscape of Skyrim, before joining his friends on the balcony.

            Ulfric shifted, preparing to rise, and Torygg raised his hand before bringing it down with one sharp chop. “I declare this Moot over,” the boy-king announced.

            “You think you can silence me?” Ulfric asked, standing up. “You think you silence the thousands of common Nords who clamour for the right to worship as they see fit?”

            “Given you recently banned worship of the Three Good Daedra and the Hist in Windhelm, I don’t think you’re one to talk,” Balgruuf drawled sardonically. “If Dunmer and Argonians cannot worship as they wish, you undermine your own argument.”

            “This is Skyrim and we don’t worship foreign gods here,” Ulfric replied, glaring at the Jarl of Whiterun.

            “Given that half of the Divines come from the elven pantheons, don’t you think that’s a little… hmm… hypocritical?” Vingalmo observed blandly. “When I see temples of Jhunal, Kyne and Shor raised in Windhelm, I’ll be more impressed.”

            “We’ve raised them in Winterhold,” Korir supplied helpfully. “Well, shrines in our Temple of All Gods. We even have ones for Stuhn and Tsun.”

            Ulfric favoured him with a glower as Torygg cleared his throat. “This Moot is over,” the High King repeated. “Need I say it thrice?”

            “It’s Ulfric,” Igmund said flatly. “You’ll need to tell him _nine_ times for it to sink in.”

            “That’s enough.” Elisif stood up and glared at the other Jarls. “We lost Istlod a few months ago and I don’t see anyone trying to support us through this time of need. Most of you should be ashamed of yourselves for putting your petty grievances ahead of Skyrim’s good.”

            “The girl has a point,” Balgruuf rumbled. “The Moot’s over and I for one want to get some lunch. It wasn’t the commoners of Skyrim growling – it was my stomach!”

            As the Moot broke up, Ulfric made his way to Laila and her new Steward, Sigdrifa and Galmar in tow. Egil was back in Windhelm in case something went wrong. “Laila,” the Jarl greeted with a broad smile. “You didn’t tell me you got a new Steward.”

            “Given that the Rift’s internal affairs are none of your business, I didn’t think I had to,” Laila replied icily.

            “I thought I’d warn Jorleif,” Ulfric said with something resembling a smile. “Give him a fighting chance against…?”

            Up close, the Steward was apparently the product of a Nord mother despite that Cyrod raptor’s beak of a nose. Her jaw was nearly as square as Sigdrifa’s own, her cheekbones high, and her eyes a warm blue-green like seawater in sunlight. There was a rounding to the harsh angles of a Nord face and her height was that of a Redguard instead of a purebred child of the snow. She was hauntingly familiar, though like Ulfric Sigdrifa couldn’t place her.

            “Korli Clever-Hands,” the woman answered, the faintest frost in her low pleasant tones. “I’ve met Ulfric before, Jarl Laila. I was about eight at the time.”

            “That’s _Jarl_ Ulfric,” Sigdrifa said coldly.

            “ _Jarl_ Ulfric,” Korli repeated. Then she glanced at Sigdrifa and those warm blue-green eyes hardened. “Stormsword.”

            “I know of no clan called Clever-Hands,” Ulfric said grimly.

            “I received the honour-name for my gift at weaving. I don’t know if I had a clan name before then. My mother dumped me at a farm in Whiterun Hold when I was eight.” Korli sketched a precise, insulting bow.

            “Isn’t it wonderful how anyone can rise to prominence in the Rift?” Laila said proudly. “Korli came to my city a nigh-penniless churl divorced for barrenness. Well, looks like the boot was on her husband’s foot, because she’s expecting and doing quite well as a producer of honey and the finest silk-wool in Skyrim. Speaking of which, when are you and Brynjolf getting married?”

            “He’s trying to find the perfect diamond,” Korli said with a smile. “His first choice was a little big.”

            “That rogue Delvin told me it was as big as your head,” Laila grinned.

            “Near enough,” Korli confirmed wryly. She bowed again. “I better go talk to Arch-Mage Bjarni about that contract for mage robes.”

            “Do so. That young man, roguish as he is, has turned Korir and Winterhold around for the better.” Laila nodded regally and her Steward left.

            “Well,” Ulfric said once Laila went over to speak to Korir, “I can’t say Korlaina was in the wrong to do that to us.”

            It took Sigdrifa a moment to realise who he was talking about. She’d honestly forgotten about the sickly girlchild from her marriage to Rustem. She didn’t look so sickly now; in fact, she glowed with good health. “We made the best choice,” she grated.

            “Did we? We better assume Bjarni knows and he’ll tell Egil in short order.” Ulfric sighed. “I pray she puts Skyrim above her own grudges, Sigdrifa.”

            The Stormsword said nothing. She told the girl to forget and had been disobeyed. That meant steps needed to be taken.


	13. All Things End in This Mortal World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Final chapter in this story! I'm sorry for the ending. Please don't hate me.

 

It was a beautiful night in early spring, when Secunda hung full on the horizon and Masser was a bloody nail-paring in the sky, when Valerica met the oft-mentioned Sigdrifa for the first and only time. The woman waited outside Windhelm, the body of a hapless Saxhleel in rough garments at her feet, with a bag of coin and an expectant expression. A handsome woman, if one missed the ice in her eyes and the bitter set of her mouth. On seeing her, Valerica understood the violent antipathy Rustem held for her just a little. Harkon would have embraced such as her as a wife wholeheartedly. Thank Sithis they never met.

            “I was expecting Astrid,” Sigdrifa said without preamble.

            “Astrid is busy. You’re getting me,” Valerica said bluntly.

            “I expect better manners from those I’m paying.”

            “You’re paying us to kill for you, not give etiquette lessons.” Valerica paused and added, “Though a few of _those_ wouldn’t go astray.”

            “Stop wasting my time. I can only be absent from Ulfric’s hall for so long before he suspects me.”

            “Woman, you have contracts on half of Skyrim. Is there one you want to act on or are you adding a new name to the list?”

            “Korli Clever-Hands, the Steward in Riften.”

            “Might I ask why?”

            “No.” Sigdrifa thrust the bag of coin at her.

            Valerica didn’t take it, letting the bag fall to the ground. “I think not.”

            “Why in the name of Talos not?”

            “Because, my dear, it’s unprofessional to accept a contract on a member of the Thieves’ Guild, particularly the betrothed of a Nightingale who happens to be the Guildmaster.” Valerica smiled thinly as realisation sunk in. “Your daughter – yes, I know who she is – is protected and respected. Even if I weren’t concerned about the retribution of the Guild, I would very much hate to explain to my Brother Rustem why I allowed her to be assassinated.”

            Even in the moonlight, Sigdrifa blanched white as snow.

            “There is a third reason. Galmar Stone-Fist has put a contract out on you.” Valerica twisted the blood inside her to assume Vampire Lord form. “Titus Mede is dead, so there is no reason to keep you alive anymore.”

            The Stormsword’s face went slack as the enthrallment took her. But Valerica did not feed. Instead, with a mighty effort, the vampire picked up the woman, armour and all, and flew the short distance to the deepest part of Windhelm’s harbour before dropping her with an almighty splash. Let her be sea-dead and damned for eternity. Adversarial as Valerica’s relationship with Serana was, she couldn’t imagine hiring an assassin to kill her own child.

            Then she flew back, picked up the Saxhleel’s body, and laid it gently on the docks for the workers to find in the morning. It was almost dawn by then, so she took shelter in Yngol’s Barrow, which had been looted by Rustem several months ago.

            As the day-sleep took her, Valerica felt a sense of satisfaction. Skyrim would have a few more years of peace now the woman was gone.

…

Elinhir wasn’t too different from Falkreath over the border. The buildings were more organic in form, with intricate fretted screens carved in pale pine and birch, and the inhabitants darker, clad in looser garments and more inclined to smile. Rustem rode in on a slow half-dead nag, another Alik’r mercenary, and rode to a particular inn two streets from the gate. It was frequented by Redguards who’d been among the Nords and picked up a taste for ale and mead, so another Alik’r wouldn’t draw too much attention.

            _Safiya’s doing a good job,_ he thought in satisfaction. The streets were clean and safe, the thieves kept to an acceptable level, and business was brisk. He’d never been a good lord of anything, let alone a town, so handing the reins over to his wife was no great hardship. Cirroc was up at the Ansei monastery learning the ways of a Sword-Saint and he had a half-dozen female cousins on his mother’s side to inherit the town if he didn’t want to rule.

            He paid for food and ale to be taken up to the room he hired. Not the best, but comfortable and the sort of accommodation a briefly prosperous mercenary would indulge in. Rustem was never the infiltrator his brother was but he picked up a few skills in acting and blending in nevertheless.

            His contact arrived halfway through a deliciously spicy goat stew. Old and weathered, unbowed and unbroken by over seventy years of life, Beroc sat down at the table without a by your leave. “I thought you weren’t coming back,” the ancient Forebear observed dryly.

            “Officially, I’m not. I just wanted to fill you in on a few things, leave a gift for Cirroc, and get back to Skyrim.” He poured Beroc some ale. “Mede’s dead and the Empire thinks the Thalmor paid for it. Motierre turned up dead a few months later and it seems Princess Akaviria is the last one standing of the Mede Dynasty.”

            “Akaviria went missing about a month ago,” Beroc said, accepting the wooden goblet of ale. “One of the Alik’r searching for Iman al-Suda made mention of a Colovian girl named Ria attempting to join the Companions of Jorrvaskr.”

            “She’s always been obsessed with them,” Rustem said, dipping some sour flatbread into his stew. “The Brotherhood will stay clear. The Companions would be quite capable of annihilating us if they so choose.”

            “Wise. We want Cyrodiil occupied, not obliterated.” Beroc’s smile was flinty. “Mede paid the price for his sins. That’s something.”

            “That it is.” Rustem gestured to the scimitar on the bench. “I took that from the captain of the Katariah.”

            “Windshear,” Beroc said quietly. “An ancient weapon of the Forebears. For Cirroc?”

            “Who else?” Rustem ate some more stew. “I had to take Irkand’s hand. Turned out he was Goldbrand’s wielder.”

            “Yes, that little detail reached us. Dramatic but it made the point.”

            “Safiya’s done a good job with the town. Who’s going to inherit?”

            “Dalila, I’d say. Sura-Ansei tells me Cirroc has the potential to become a Sword-Saint, a _true_ Sword-Saint, if he isn’t distracted.” This time Beroc’s smile was proud and Rustem echoed it.

            “Callaina’s alive. Sigdrifa only dumped her at a farm. She’s the Steward of the Rift and spends most of her days raising honey and goats.” Rustem nodded at Beroc’s light mantle. “That looks like her weave. She prefers herringbone using the wool’s natural colours.”

            “I got this from a Nord merchant claiming it was from the last batch of Whiterun silk-wool. Was I cheated?”

            “Technically, no. Korli had to rescue the goats and now they’re in the Rift.” Rustem finished his flatbread. “Send Cirroc to her, when he’s of an age. It’ll do them both some good.”

            “Will it be safe? I hear rebellion’s rumbling in Skyrim.”

            Rustem chuckled. “That depends on whether Ulfric or Sigdrifa die first. It’s going to happen in a few years regardless. Watch out for Egil Dawnbringer. He’s a little zealot who happens to be the Champion of Meridia.”

            “And Ulfric’s other son?”

            “Bjarni? He’s at the College. Doesn’t seem to care much for his parents and is common-law married to a daughter of House Telvanni.”

            “Hmm.” Beroc sipped some more ale. “This will need to be handled carefully. The Thalmor are reeling from their defeat, but Bosmer and Khajiit reproduce quickly. Within the decade, if not two, they’ll try again.”

            “And they’ll get a rude shock if they do. I, ah, set up certain conditions for a prophecy to be fulfilled. All it takes is Skyrim breaking out into civil war and High King Torygg dying to begin. If it does, Akatosh will supply the champion.”

            Beroc knew exactly what he meant. “Is that… wise?”

            “Several of the old dragon-blooded lines still exist in Skyrim,” Rustem explained quietly. “Wulfharth, Ysgramor, probably even a bastard Septim or some clan yet unknown. Some Blades yet live and they’ll reveal themselves in time. But we need the Dragonborn to have any hope of defeating the Thalmor.”

            “I pray I don’t live to see it,” Beroc said heavily.

            “I don’t blame you. But it had to be done. The Septim Empire is gone and no one will bow to the Medes. If Skyrim gains its freedom, it’s good for us. If not… Well, we’re still tough enough to deny the Empire.”

            Rustem drained his goblet, suddenly feeling tired. He yawned. “I’m sorry, it’s been a long trip.”

            “I know.” Beroc’s expression wavered. No, Rustem’s eyes were swimming. Was Beroc getting younger?

            No, it was Irkand. “What the…?”

            “I told you if I ever saw you again, I’d kill you,” his brother said simply. “The Crowns were less than happy about you destabilising their neighbours, so they reached an agreement with the Elder Council. We acknowledge Hammerfell’s independence as a kingdom and they hand you over.”

            “B-Beroc…?”

            “Asleep. He doesn’t even know you’re in town.” Irkand sighed. “I’ll deliver the sword to your son. I hope he makes better choices.”

            He rose to his feet. “I killed Motierre. I should go and kill Beroc too, if he was the mastermind of this plot, but that may push High King Sura-Mai’s tolerance to its limits. I’ll make sure he can’t plot again.”

            “Irk-Irkand…”

            His brother knelt over him with infinite compassion in his eyes. “Arkay receive you, brother. It’s better than the Void.”

            Rustem chuckled darkly, weakly. “Poisoning the stew. Impressive.”

            “One does appreciate one’s work being recognised.” Then Irkand’s eyes went blank and he keeled over.

            “Poisoned… ale… arsehole.”

            Rustem sighed and let the Void take him. His work was done. His family safe. Hammerfell avenged.


End file.
